


Humane

by RhineGold



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: He's learned to hate these places with every fiber of his being - the crush of humanity, on both sides, the auction blocks and waiting stalls, the sellers, calling out numbers and attributes like the prices of vegetables at a market, and the byers, lined like cattle against the fences, chewing on every visible vulnerability and flaw.Young buys Rush at a slave auction. And now he has to decide what to do with him.(Some kissing, some math, some fighting... some more math, a bit more than kissing. And more math)
Relationships: Nicholas Rush/Everett Young
Comments: 17
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An unfinished universe here with more complicated decisions to be untangled about where to take the story eventually. But I thought I'd see if anyone was interested in the concept?
> 
> ETA: It sure as hell got untangled now.

He's learned to hate these places with every fiber of his being - the crush of humanity, on both sides, the auction blocks and waiting stalls, the sellers, calling out numbers and attributes like the prices of vegetables at a market, and the byers, lined like cattle against the fences, chewing on every visible vulnerability and flaw. He's only come at David's insistence - they've both received a substantial bonus this quarter and the other man has mind to finally buy someone more permanent for a change. Young just hates it and finds himself away from the main auctions where the people with nothing to do head down into the gears of the machine. 

That's where he sees him, in a small paddock, chained at the throat and wrists to a holding block, the only one left behind by the seller. He is older than most auctioned slaves, perhaps the oldest one here today, and he looks more than a little lost. His jeans and sweater were nice once, perhaps even expensive, but they are threadbare now and lacking in any kind of plushness. He kneels beside the block, trying to keep the rough collar from digging into his neck, and he looks so wrong here that it gives Young some pause. He doesn't look like any slave Young's ever seen and he finds himself coming to a stop to look him over. Soft brown hair too long to be anything but a bedslave, but there is so much intelligence in his dark brown eyes that it paints a confusing, conflicting picture.

The other man, one of the auctioneers, has noticed his interest and sidled over in that sleazy way they all have, like men selling you a car instead of a human being. "You like? I can give you a good deal on him. He's a bit of an oddity in our collection."

"Oddity?" He repeats, eyes never leaving the slave's face. He can't hear them at this distance, and Young is grateful.

"He was a house slave for a rich woman, but she died, and he ended up back in the system. He's too old for the general market, nobody bids, but he's too skilled to just send down the river."

Young knows what happens to slaves sold 'down the river' - prostitution, mostly, in the houses of the lowest common denominator, though some find their way into horrible labor positions where they waste away to nothing. It's a terrible fate.

"How much?" He hears himself ask and that can't be right. Everett Young doesn't believe in slavery, has actively demonstrated against it in his youth, and above all, is not here for anything of the sort. 

The man names a number and it is not an unfeasible one, not with his bonus and a bit of his savings. He looks at the long brown hair and the hopeless, dark eyes, the clothes that were once expensive and are now worn, and he shakes the man's hand. It's pitifully simple to buy his first slave.

~*~

From Young's understanding, slaves are not supposed to spend much time looking at their masters. But this one, whose papers name him as someone called 'Rush', spends little time doing anything but staring at him in a kind of wondering stupor, as though he can do little else. 

Young carries the wrist and the collar leashes in one hand, weaving them both through the tangle of people. He forgets about David and hails a nearby cab instead, not wanting to explain this to his friend even if he were to find him again. 

The cab ride is awkward and silent, with the cabby grinning knowingly over his shoulder and gnawing on a toothpick. Rush watches the traffic go by like a man who has never seen it before and Young wonders suddenly how he'd been transported to the sales center and how long ago. 

They hit a drive through before making their way to the apartments where Young lives since there isn't much in the way of food there. He orders for the other man because it's too awkward to ask him what he might want. Basic burgers and fries and he gives them to the other man to hold without a second thought, angry at himself for treating him so automatically after all his complaining over the years.

Too soon, they are standing in Young's living room while he locks and bars the door. There's a message from David on his cell phone and he stares at it instead of the other man behind him, wearing a set of wrist chains and a collar, carrying two drinks and a sack of burgers. It's all too bizarre. 

He texts David back with an apology and a promise to explain tomorrow. Then he turns off his phone. Turning to the other man, he takes the bag of food and caddy of drinks and places them on the table. The man is completely unresisting as he unfastens the wrist cuffs, and he freezes entirely when Young unfastens the collar. 

"I'll... buy a nicer one eventually..." He offers as the man rubs his neck carefully. He has long hands, like a piano player, with nice elegant fingers. This is a slave who has never had to perform hard labor, he's pleased to see. His hands still look nicely formed and only lightly calloused. He wonders about the woman who had owned him before but doesn't know how awkward that would be to ask.

"My name is Colonel Everett Young. I'm a United States Air Force officer. This is my home, and yours now too. I'm not sure what to call you." He says finally, unsure how else to begin. 

When the man speaks, it is with a hoarse but lilting voice. "My name is Nicholas Rush. Thank you for... for purchasing me." He is Scottish, which surprises Young immensely. There isn't much trade between countries in slaves, which means he had to have been brought over by an individual. They mysterious woman becomes even more mysterious. 

"I've never owned a slave before," He admits upfront. 

"I've only had three owners," He replies, eyeing the sofa speculatively. 

"Please, sit down," He says a tad too sharply. "Make yourself comfortable. We should probably eat before it gets too cold."

And so he finds himself sitting on his sofa with a man who huddles on it, eating burgers as though he expects someone to take them away. 

"They told me you have a permit to work outside the home," He says conversationally, "That's impressive."

"I'm qualified to teach and tutor in mathematics," Rush replies, keeping his eyes on his food. "It can generate income if need be, if you're ever away and unable to take me with you. Privately, you understand. No school would ever allow a slave to work there."

Young nods and takes a long drink of soda. The ice is mostly melted but he drinks it anyway. Across the sofa, Rush cradles his cup in both hands, staring down at it as though it is something precious.

"How long has it been since you've eaten anything?" He asks softly.

"I ate this morning," He says distantly, but can't hide the grimace at the thought of whatever that had entailed. 

"Tomorrow we'll see about getting you some new clothes and things," He says, thinking about the rough ring of metal lying under the takeaway bag. Collars. He's never had to think of such things before. Would Rush have a preference? 

"I think this is going to be easier for me if you tell me a little bit about yourself," he says finally, putting down his cup and turning to face him more fully. "That way I know... what to expect from you, and what you're expecting from me."

And so Rush tells him. Haltingly at first, and then more fluidly as he gains ground. He'd been born in Scotland, in Glasgow, where his father worked as a laborer for a fishing company. His mother had been another worker but she'd died from an illness when he was small. He'd been allowed to stay with his father in a small house, until one day, his father had taken him and run away. They'd lived in the woods, sneaking into town to raid skips and bins, sleeping where they could find shelter, always moving. It had been no life for a child, Rush noted, but there'd been pride in his voice. For those few short months, they'd been free. 

After that, everything had come to an end. They'd been recaptured and separated, Rush being sent to a center in the city that specialized in raising orphaned slave children. There, it had been discovered he had a talent for mathematics. His first owner had allowed him to work days doing books for an accounting firm, until he was nineteen, and he'd been sold. 

His next owner had been his last, until Young - he'd spent more than two and a half decades in the care of a young woman, a violinist, he said proudly, who had encouraged him to study mathematics and to tutor others both in and outside her home. They had been very close, and she'd treated him more as an equal than a slave. Then she had become very ill, cancer, and he'd become her caretaker until the end. Her will had specified he be sent back overseas to her parents, but the travel papers had fallen through, and her executor had eventually had no choice but to remand him to the slaving yard again, for resale. It is a sad story, and one Young senses was not necessarily a complete one, but he swallowed it all down, digesting it like dinner. The life of a slave, from birth until now. It seems like fiction, but here the man is.

And Young owns him now, for the foreseeable future. Surreal. 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Telford mocks him, of course. Telford does little else in their day-to-day lives, but over Rush, it seems to sting more and last longer. What kind of a man, Telford had asked, buys a slave and doesn't even try him out? Young had tried to explain the awkwardness of the situation, to explain the way Rush had been so delicate and unusual, and how the predicament they'd found themselves in felt cozier than sexual, but Telford had simply laughed in his face. Everett, he'd said, everyone knows what kinds of people don't fuck their slaves - those who can't and those who are too soft to. By making it a matter of masculinity, it had stung at his pride, making him flush and stammer. Making him angry.

When he arrives home, Rush is in the kitchen, washing some dishes that had been left to sit over the weekend. He is wearing the new sweatshirt they'd found for him the previous day, and a new pair of jeans. Around his neck, the white leather collar stands out in stark contrast to his skin. It had been enough to make Young's bank account cry, but it had been the one Rush had actually wanted and he figured that should count for something. Rush has spent the last three evenings sleeping on Young's sofa but that is about to change. Rubbing his palms on his own jeans, he asks Rush to finish up and follow him into the bedroom.

Uneasy now, Rush follows him, looking puzzled. He looks honestly concerned with the way Young staggers into the place nervously, and when he asks him quietly if he is okay, Young very nearly loses his nerve entirely. He wonders if he can tell how drunk he really is.

"I want you to get on the bed," He says finally, trying not to choke on his own tongue. Rush looks at him as though he had grown another head, but suddenly, painfully, he understands.

Before he can do what looked like deciding between fight and flight, Young closes the distance between them with a shaky step. Jamming his hands into the tight cinch of Rush's new jeans, he pulls him closer, until he can feel Rush's long, dark hair against his throat. They are nearly the same height but Rush is so slight and Young so stocky that it feels so different between them. Rush looks up at him with wet, dark eyes and tries to speak. Young kisses him instead.

Rush tastes like one of the inkpens he is always chewing on and smells like the dishsoap he has just been using. Young likes to watch him do sudoku in the little book he'd bought him but he loves this even more. He opens beneath Young like a book, a practiced fall onto the bed like he's been shoved, but more gentle - a bending instead of a break. Hands still in Rush's jeans, he thumbs over the man's hipbones, and deepens the kiss. He is pushing his luck, he knows, forcing this from Rush, but it doesn't feel like forcing when the man goes so easily, without protest. He opens his mouth for Young and their legs tangle, jeans on jeans, and Rush clutches at his tee-shirt without clawing, just clenching.

Finally, Young breaks the kiss and peppers more here and there on the other man's cheeks and throat. "...want you..." he grits out, voice thick with lust and liquor and Rush huffs in surprise, as though he has forgotten what this was all about in the first place.

"Colonel Young..." He begins, but is quickly cut off with another kiss. He squirms then, liquid and bone under Young, under Young who holds him like a drowning man. He'd been told to get onto the bed and had understood, Young tells himself. He'd brought them down to it, onto the blankets, himself, in that sweet, tender, controlled fall. Rush turns his head to the side, flat against the coverlet, breaking the kiss with a wet sound that sounds filthy in the dark. His lips look bruised and he keeps his eyes trained on the wall.

"...Rush," He begins, guilt beginning to creep into his voice before he really feels it spread through his liquor-addled brain. "Rush, I..."

"Just get on with it, then," Rush whispers, never looking at him.

"I don't..." Young sits up and away from him, pushing his luck again and letting one hand skim under Rush's sweatshirt to press, palm-wide against his smooth stomach. "This isn't..." But it is and they both know it. He'd known it three drinks and two hours into David's mockery and Rush hadn't known it until he'd closed the bedroom door. But they know it.

"Just get _on_ with it!" Rush snaps, twisting to look at him, his right elbow propping him up and his left hard against Young's chest, digging into the spot between his ribs.

"I'm not going to force you to have sex with me," he says, hating how his voice sounds almost lost, almost angry at the same time.

"Isn't that what this whole thing is about?! You _bought_ me!" He snarls then, the elbow digging deeper and he flips himself with the other arm until he is braced up on his right palm. One thin knee is between them, his body at odds with his words, one demanding and cruel and the other panicked and defensive. Young doesn't know which one he likes better, isn't sure if he could ever decide.

"I didn't buy you to... to... I just... I was drinking and I thought... This is a mistake. This whole thing is a mistake." He levers off the bed, away from Rush, and across the room.

Undeterred, Rush actually has the nerve to follow him, backing Young against his own bedroom wall. One arm shoots out, palm shoving hard against Young's chest, pressing him to the wall. "You _bought_ me," He hisses again, voice like gravel, his hand coming up to curve against the stubble of Young's cheek. "Now you've told me why."

"I bought you because I felt sorry for you," he snaps back, grabbing Rush by a fistful of sweatshirt before reversing their positions to push the smaller man against the wall. The white of Rush's collar stands out against the dark grey and shadows, making Young feel sick to his stomach in a way that has nothing to do with how much he's had to drink.

"Sorry for me, huh?!" Rush gives as good as he gets then, clutching Young by his tee-shirt with one hand and pinching his neck, just above the collar bone with the other. "Maybe I'm the one who's sorry."

"You should be; your life's been a shit-show!" Young shouts despite himself, feeling as angry with this man as he had been with David.

"You don't know anything about my life!" Rush shoots back and the hand on his neck is bruising now, making Young grab him by his hair in an attempt to force him to let up.

This isn't how this is supposed to go at all, Young thinks. Suddenly the world feels very small and Rush's hair is so soft under his hand and he doesn't care about the hands on him anymore and his vision seems to zoom into Rush's face where he was saying his name over and over, shaking him even, and suddenly Young loses his balance, knees hitting the floor, face banging into Rush's stomach.

He can feel the blackness on the edge of his vision, nothingness roaring into his ears, just chasing over what sounds like Nicholas Rush having a panic attack.


	3. Chapter 3

When Young comes to, he's lying on his side, arms boneless under and beside him. His jaw hurts and his head is worse and there is something wrong with his throat. He realizes his head is pillowed on something soft and warm and he blinks slowly to see Nicholas Rush sitting above him, cross legged and holding a sudoku book in one hand, high off his lap and away from Young's head. He isn't wearing any pants.

Distressed now, Young lunges into a sitting position, but this just spins the world sideways and he falls to his hands and knees, feeling bile burning the back of his throat. Curiously, he doesn't taste vomit there, but he can feel it clinging to the inside of his mouth, dried and half-gone. 

"You threw up on my pants," Rush offers quietly. 

He only has three pairs of pants so far, two pairs of jeans and nicer dress slacks and Young has possibly already ruined a pair. "..." He tries to apologize but the lump in his throat is so severe that for a moment he can barely swallow, barely breathe.

"Don't try to talk," he answers, voice still soft. Not skittish, but gentle, calming. Young thinks suddenly of his former owner, the mysterious lady. Cancer. Rush must be used to this sort of bedside manner. That thought makes him unbearably sad and he has no idea what it must be doing to Rush.

"Can you get on the bed, d'you think?"

He nods but the world tips again briefly. The AC is noticeable from this angle and it feels pleasant on his feverish skin. Rush must have turned it on because it's only 55 degrees outside and they were content with the temperature from a mutual discussion earlier. 

As Rush helps him onto the bed, he remembers suddenly their kissing and the way he'd ruined it by going too fast. Rush climbs into the bed beside him and spoons up behind him, surprisingly, wrapping one thin arm around Young's waist. He can feel that soft hair on the side of his throat again, recalls the nasty way they fought, and the way Rush had panicked when he'd hit the floor. What had he been so afraid of? Killing him? Ruining things? Young was the one who'd done that. But here was Rush, holding him and letting his forehead press into the nape of Young's neck.

"...'m sorry," he murmurs finally and Rush shushes him. "No, I..." His voice comes back sounding like he's swallowed a pound of charcoal, but he can swallow again. "I threw up on you," he offers finally.

Rush huffs a small laugh into the back of his throat, vibrating into Young's skin and he is acutely aware that Rush is only wearing underwear and his sweatshirt, legs pressing against and into the backs of Young's knees. He's warm. "I've had worse," He promises, hugging Young tighter for a moment, a kind of hug that feels soothing, like a parent to a child.

"I tried to..." 

"Let's not talk about that just now, okay?" Rush says, cutting him off, but his voice isn't sharp or hard.

Young takes him at his word, and suddenly, his pounding head gets the better of him. He falls asleep in Rush's warm arms.

~*~

When he wakes up again, Rush is gone. 

There's a glass of water and two tablets of aspirin on the bedside table, as well as a spidery-scrawled note on a post-in that says _'immediately'_. 

Following the good 'doctor's' advice, he swallows the pills dry and then drinks the entire glass of water in one go. He's still thirsty so he pads out into the living room, intending to go into the kitchen. 

Rush is sitting at the tiny kitchen table, one hand in his own hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. The other is holding the newspaper a tad too close to his face. He wonders again if Rush needs glasses. He holds things very close to his face sometimes but he doesn't seem to have trouble reading anything at that distance, so he's not half-blind or anything. 

Young clears his throat and it's a gunshot in the quiet afternoon room. Rush jumps, flattening the paper against the table, the sheets slapping against the cup of coffee he's made. Rush drinks a lot of coffee, he's noticed. But now he looks like he needs it - eyes dark-circled and red-rimmed, adam's apple moving under the collar, so stark against the long expanse of his throat. He's clearly been crying. 

"Thank you," he says quietly, unmoving, not wanting to distress the man further by moving into his personal space. "For... everything."

Rush shrugs, an elegant rise and roll of the shoulders as he reaches for the coffee with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. "You would have done the same for me."

Would he have? Young wonders silently. Could he have done it so expertly, so kindly? Rush is nothing but kind, he realizes, considering his position. Except when they'd been fighting. _"Maybe I'm the one who's sorry,"_ he recalls. Is he? Does he regret Young purchasing him? Could he have thought there would be anything but mistreatment and abuse? He knows Rush hasn't been abused much, if at all, based on the brief history he'd outlined. Not for a slave, at least. But he'd expected Young to rape him and that hurts a lot. 

It hurts more because really, spurned by David and by drinking, he had fully been prepared to do just that. Rush had saved himself with his defiance and probably saved Young too. He didn't want to be a rapist. Didn't want to be a slave owner at all (his college-aged self would be so ashamed, he knew), but never, never one of that kind. He'd been in college when he'd realized he'd like to feel David pressed against him, hip to hip, in something lewd and sensual. But he'd never, never acted on any of those urges, with his best friend or with anyone else. But Rush belonged to him now, and these things were expected. But he resolved to be better, be different.

He will not rape Nicolas Rush.

"I think..." he says finally, breaking the silence that has spooled on far too long, "I think we need to get your eyes checked. Have you ever worn glasses?"

"...When I was with Gl... with Ms. Donnell." He answers softly.

"What happened to them?"

"They took them when they took me to the... the... When they took me," He says, sounding distressed by the way his voice ratcheted up a few notches. 

"Okay. So we get you some glasses. And some more clothes. And books, if you want. Whatever you want." Can he buy back the man's quiet trust of him by throwing money at him? Doubtful. But it's a start. 

He will not rape Nicolas Rush, he decides firmly. He will _seduce_ him instead. If only he had the slightest notion of where to begin.


	4. Chapter 4

Glasses look good on Rush.

His face is nicely framed by the, well, frames, Young thinks. Hugo Boss shows once again that Rush has expensive taste, but he makes good money doing what he does, so it's all right. Which brings him to his next problem.

"I, uh..." He hates the way he stutters around this man, a bad habit from childhood, when he's trying to put his scattered thoughts into simple words. "I got some papers today."

"Oh?" Rush asks noncommittally as he puts away the groceries (the way he likes, with no heed for the way Young had organized things before). 

"I have to go on a ... business trip." 

Rush does look at him then, eyes narrowing behind his glasses before they widen in surprise. "Oh."

"I'm not... I'm not leaving you here alone. I don't think that's fair just yet."

There is a long pause and Rush seems to let out a sigh neither of them noticed he had been holding. "...Where are we going?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Well that sounds like a great deal of fun."

~*~

The things Everett Young does are classified. Rush never knew this, in the week that've spent together, but he packs his meager things into the suitcase Young provides and he gets into the car with no fuss. He fastens his seatbelt slowly like he's almost forgotten how again. Makes a face until Young fastens his own seatbelt as well. Even though they'd just driven two days before, Rush acts like this is the first time he's been in a car before. Young wonders how he'll cope with the rest of it, if a car is a foreign world to him. Best wait and see.

Rush is quiet on the drive but Young lets him fiddle with the radio until classical music fills the small car. Of course Rush likes classical music, he thinks, wondering again about the mysterious violinist. When Rush closes his eyes, Young allows himself a small smile. Rush looks peaceful like this, face newly shaven, hair flopped back from his face to show off the new glasses. He looks... pretty. 

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Young slows the car and pulls his identification out of the breast pocket of his uniform. The guard examines every inch even though they know each other pretty well at this point. He gestures to Rush with his weapon, still held at the ready, even in this peaceful transaction. Young hands over Rush's papers as well and he isn't imagining the way the man looks speculatively at Rush's collar. When he's waved through, the other man suddenly seems to notice they've reached their destination. He'd been asleep. 

Again, something tugs at Young's heart.

The drive into Cheyenne Mountain is uneventful for Young, but Rush looks at the tall, arching concrete walls as though he has never been a tunnel before. But he shivers with what might be fear or revulsion, and Young keeps his hand steady on the wheel.

~*~

More identification is exchanged inside and Young feels guilty showing Rush's papers too, a simple, stark photograph of the man in his ruined sweater with his stringy hair and Young vows to update the slave papers as soon as he can.

And then everything goes wrong again, when he sees a familiar face come sidling up to them as soon as they clear security.

"So this is the tender little morsel," David says and Young wants to smack him across his smiling face. 

Rush bristles at that, his hackles rising and colour rushing to his cheeks. He hadn't even blushed when Young had been kissing him, he thinks. "Morsel?" He snaps despite himself and then Young can see that blood drain from his face just as quickly as it had come. Young loves Rush's spirit, but there is a time and a place and now David looks pissed off.

"Got a mouth on him, doesn't he?" He says darkly, one hand coming up to slide over Rush's jacket until he is yanking him forward a few inches. Rush doesn't go and his shoe squeaks awkwardly as he resists the pull. "It's a pretty nice mouth, Everett. I can see why you brought him along."

"Lay off, David," He all-but growls, and the other man looks surprised, letting go of Rush with a small push that sends the smaller man back a few paces. "We're not here for this."

"You're right." He agrees, nodding and suddenly serious. "The last one cracked before he could solve it. They're looking for another one now but the odds are getting slimmer and security's just getting tighter." 

Suddenly, Young has an idea. One that plays nicely into his own hand, but might actually serve them all. "Rush is good at math," he says suddenly.

"Everett, he's a _slave_ ," David reminds him.

"Exactly..." He drawls out, trying to make himself smirk. "That means he does what I tell him to. And _I_ want to see him do some fucking math."


	5. Chapter 5

Young throws his duffle over one shoulder to open the door with his now-freed hand. Rush trails behind him, dragging his suitcase by the handle and the wheels (because of _course_ he would). The room is small, much smaller than his apartment and bedroom. There's a bed, a bathroom, a washstand outside the bathroom, and a desk with a little closet tucked beside it. Standard Homeworld Command fare. It's not the room he stayed in last time but it's pretty much identical. 

Rush has stopped dead in the doorway. When Young turns to look at him, he sees distress in the man's carved features and he realizes with a pang that Rush is looking at the single bed. 

"I'll uh... I'll take the floor," he offers, trying to force his lips to form a reassuring smile.

"It's fine," Rush says, shoving his suitcase into the general direction of the desk, plopping down on the offending surface with a single-minded effort that is almost aggressive. "We can share." 

Young watches him for a long moment, the way the white collar trembles on that long throat as Rush swallows, perhaps more words, or just fear. He still doesn't even know where they are, let alone where they're going. This room is very, very temporary. "Okay," he offers finally. "We share."

~*~

It takes little effort to secure a laptop for himself, but getting one for Rush is impossible so he just hands his over as soon as they're in their room. 

Rush spends a long time studying the laptop, running his hands along the sides and the back, feeling USB ports and SD slots, and a few that must be unfamiliar to him at this time. He sits there, staring at the black, streamlined shell, still touching it like a blind man. Young has no idea what he is doing. 

Finally, Rush opens the damned thing. 

And promptly goes a little pale. 

"Home...World Command?" he asks finally, voice too awe-struck to be properly confused. 

The wallpaper, Young realizes, with their name and logo framed in stark colours on a pale green screen. "I was trying to think of a good way to explain this..." He replies, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. "We're... uh..."

"Home... _World_ ," Rush states, voice flatter now. "I take it we are not just talking about a global organization? Which I know does not fucking exist," he adds sharply.

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Rush," He says simply.

~*~

Rush takes it pretty well, all things considered. There's a bitter, sardonic tone when he replies to Young's statements though, and Young can't quite understand why. But all of it, the Gates, the aliens, the technology. Young prattles and Rush listens and then makes these measured, caustic responses in turn. 

Finally, it all clicks, like it should have in the first place, when Rush finally asks in a calmer, softer voice, "And on these... other worlds... Am I still your slave?"

It's a punch in the gut because they both know the answer to that. 

~*~

They sleep back to back on the too-small bed. Once, Young glances over his shoulder at the smaller man, but Rush is doing a decent job at pretending to be asleep, so he lets it go.

~*~

He lets Rush do whatever the hell he wants on the laptop. And Rush eats through it like a starving man. He watches videos (looking kind of cute, Young thinks, with his little red earbuds plugged into the side of the computer), reads files and newsletters and reports. Some of it seems like it's a bit above Young's paygrade, but he blames it on shitty IT and declassifications. Until the third day, when he catches Rush _coding_.

Snapping the laptop shut, he does his damnedest to loom over the seated man, trying to portray menace in every inch of his body. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!"

Rush has the good grace to look panicked before he swallows it down and glances up at him over the rims of his glasses. "I wanted to learn," he says quietly, and it's hard to stay angry in the face of such innocent curiosity. 

Slamming his fist into the closet door, Young turns around, not too fast to see the way Rush jumps. "God _dammit_ , Rush! Do you know what will happen to you if someone _catches_ you?!" He turns again to face him, and Rush is positively vibrating with an unidentifyable emotion, hands clenched on the armrests of the chair. "You think I can protect you if something like that happens?! You think they won't take you away from me; take you God-knows-where and do God-knows-what to you?! You're a _slave_ , Rush! That's less than half a person around here and you're endangering yourself, endangering _both_ of us, and for what? Because you were _curious_?!"

Rush opens his mouth to speak but immediately closes it. He stares down at his shoes, the white sneakers Young had bought him four days ago, expensive and comfortable, because he'd _wanted_ them. He licks his lips, the tip of his tongue slipping out and making Young think of the way he'd tasted, inkpens and coffee. "I just..." He tries to explain but can't seem to form the words. Rush says a lot of words, but he's struggling now and Young is in no mood to coax him. 

"You are a fucking liability to the security of this entire installation." He intones darkly. 

"This isn't what I signed up for," he replies quietly.

"You didn't sign up for anything, Rush." He hisses, planting one hand on the desk, looming and leaning until his mouth is just over the other man's ear. " _I_ did. When I _bought_ you."

And there it is again, he thinks. Rush _slams_ his own head to the side, battering his right temple into Young's, sending his head to the side with a _snap_ they both hear. Unfinished, Rush is out of the chair and shoving, knocking Young into the door he'd just punched, nearly denting the metal. Young brings both arms up to wrap, one around Rush's left side, pinning his arm as he shoves back, his free hand coming up to grab the other man by the hair. 

Rush's unhindered hand comes up to scramble in Young's hair, unable to find purchase in the neatly cropped fuzz, only for him to change course and wrap his long fingers around the back of Young's neck instead. For a moment, Young thinks, insanely, that Rush is going to kiss him, but instead, he twists his neck the other way, sending them both tumbling back into the closet door. 

Free of Young now, Rush ups the game by smacking the chair between them, scrambling around for some sort of weapon. Young ducks as the stapler goes flying past him, nearly missing Rush's lunge with the pyramid-shaped paper weight all the rooms seem to have on their desks. The weight connects with his throat and not his head, and he grabs Rush by the collar of his expensive shirt, opting for the expediency of just punching Rush in the face. Dropping the paperweight, glasses flying to hang, caught on his right ear and and his long hair, Rush pauses, stunned. Now Young is the one shoving _him_ , sending him tripping backwards over the overturned chair, until he lands on his back in the floor, nearly hitting his head on the wall. 

They stop there for a moment, both breathing heavily. 

"Are you quite done?" Rush snaps, reaching to collect his glasses with one hand, bracing himself to sit up steadily against the wall with the other.

"Are _you_?!" Young fires back, anger battling with incredulity. "What the hell was that even about?!"

"Less than half a person," Rush spits at him then and Young takes a step back out of surprise. 

"Shit, Rush, I didn't mean-"

"Oh, I rather think you did. People don't say things they don't mean, Colonel Young." 

"That's not true, I... Shit," He says again, trying to catch his breath still, even though Rush has clearly found his. "I don't think of you as... You're... a person..."

"Slave," Rush snarls, upper lip sliding back to reveal his teeth. 

They continue their staring match for several minutes, until Young gives first, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. The other he presses the heel of into his left eye socket. "Jesus, Rush. You..." He bites back a small smile, feeling his jaw pop back into position as he does so. "You're a lot of work."

"Make it up to me," Rush demands suddenly. His voice is sharp and almost commanding. 

"Shoot."

"Tell me about the Ninth Chevron."

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many italics. Anybody out there?


	6. Chapter 6

He blows through the first three in less than a day. 

The Fourth takes him two days. After that, they are like dominoes. 

No one knows about this besides him and Telford. He's not sure how to explain how he's given all this data to a _slave_ , or, better yet, how to explain that, that slave is _doing it_. 

He hits a roadblock at Eight. It seems to vex him beyond what Young has seen thus far. He understands Gates and dialing but he can't figure out what makes Eight so special and so different, if the Point-of-Origin component remains unchanged. Young actually knows the answer to this but decides to stay out of it and see what Rush can come up with. 

There are post-its and papers scattered all around the desk and Rush hasn't slept in two days. Finally, his head leans backwards and he tilts the chair with it, making Young afraid he's going to overbalance the whole thing. "It's not a Point-of-Origin," He says quietly. "...It's an Area Code." 

Young barely smothers the urge to clap, knowing Rush will probably try to kill him again if he tries. 

"You knew." Rush's voice is calm, maybe a bit too calm, sounding detached in a way.

"Of course I did." He says simply.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wanted to see if you could know too."

~*~

When Young returns from the mess one week later, Rush is standing in front of the closet door instead of hunched over the computer. He steps around him wordlessly to deposit Rush's dinner in a Styrofoam box on the corner of the desk. (More paper, more post-its). Suddenly, it clicks what he's looking at. "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?! Is that _marker_?!"

"Relax," Rush mumbles, waving him off, "It's a whiteboard pen." He is scribbling on the metal again, covering the door in more unintelligible numbers and scrawl. He stands again, holding the marker in one fist, nearly tapping the corner of his glasses as he contemplates whatever the hell he just wrote there.

After a moment, he seems to find something in the tangled figures. His left arm is wrapped around his torso, hugging himself as he taps the marker again. Finally, with a snarl, he sweeps one arm across the top half of his writings, wiping the metal door clean with his sweater sleeve. Young shrugs and lets him get back to it. 

Sitting at the desk, he opens the laptop for himself this time. Rush doesn't know this, but they are shipping out in less than a week.

~*~

"You have to tell them." 

"I know that."

"Now, Everett. This thing has gone on far enough and, hey, we've had a good run, but it's got to stop at some point."

Young leans against the wall of their little nook, out of sight of most people passing by in the corridor. Crossing his arms, hunching down slightly (and hating how this makes him look even shorter than Telford than usual), he contemplates his answer carefully. "He's almost done."

"He is... what now?"

"He's on it, David. He figured out Eighth weeks ago and he's been working like a madman since then. I think..." He pauses to run a hand over his hair, "Jesus, David, I think he's almost got it."

"Everett, we have had no fewer than eight scientists break down doing this project and you're telling me that after a couple of weeks your _slave_ -"

" _Why_ do you always say it like that?" He demands, cutting him off. 

"Because it's true!" Telford raises his voice sharply and then looks at the ground when passersby hesitate and look at them suddenly. "Everett, I get that you're easily emotionally attached... You and Emily dated like, what, five months before you were down on one-"

"Do _not_ talk to me about Emily."

"Why not? If she was still around, you never would have bought that man. You wouldn't be head-over-heels for someone who doesn't even have the right to drive a c-"

"David." He snaps off curtly, "Stop talking now."

Sighing, Telford turns away and spits at the ground in a gesture of aborted frustration. "You've got to tell them before the Daedalus, Everett. Or I will."

~*~

When he gets back to their room, the door is slightly open. 

He finds Rush inside, writing on the back of the door in his whiteboard marker. With a sigh, he flops down on the bed, closing his eyes. "Any luck?" He asks for the thirtieth time that week.

"It's not..." Rush bites the marker. "The Eighth is an Area Code. But this cannot... There is no corresponding..."

"Sorry I asked," he mutters.

"Yes, _yes_ , can you _shut_ up?!" Rush snaps. 

"Now I'm really sorry."

~*~

It's been four days since Rush has slept. It's been two days since Young has. 

For such a small, apparently unassuming man, Rush is positively _frenetic_. He consults notes he's scribbled _everywhere_ , only to scrap or erase or mark them out. The closet door is changing colours from how many times it's been wiped clean. The stuff on the back of the door only fades somewhat and is constantly being written over. Once, Young steps into the bathroom to have a shave and there is writing on the bathroom mirror. 

"Rush, this has got to stop," He says kindly, but firmly, one night. He is eating and Rush is pacing while the marker in his hand taps an agitated rhythm against the outer thigh of his jeans.

"You stop," Rush says automatically but there is no malice in it.

"I'm serious." Young leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, hands lightly clasped between them. "It _will_ be stopping. Or it will be stopped."

He has the other man's attention then, eyes widening behind his frames, hair clinging to his stubble with how fast his head has whipped around. "It what?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, as of 1300 hours, we will be leaving."

Puzzlement draws the other man's brows together, and the marker is now digging into the leg of Rush's jeans, streaking the material with black. "Home?" He asks finally. 

"No."

"Oh."

"I was never meant to have a sl- another person with me on this mission. But things have changed, and, once again, I am not leaving you behind. It's been cleared by everyone the paperwork needs to pass through. You're shipping out with me."

Sitting on the bed in something that looks like a half-swoon, Rush finally realizes he is stabbing himself with office equipment and clasps it in his hands instead. He's wearing the blue sweatshirt again and Young always finds that _so distracting_. "Where are we going?" He asks quietly.

"Not to Kansas, that's for sure."

~*~

When he's called into General O'Neill's office, it's not really surprising. 

He salutes and Jack ignores it as per custom and gestures him to the chair by the door. He had expected this meeting. He did not expect David to be sitting in the chair to the left.

"Sir, I can-"

"A _slave_ , Everett?" O'Neill does not like the word any more than Young does but it is still being treated like a dirty one and that raises his hackles in Rush's defense. 

"He knows what he's doing."

"He may know a lot of things, but Galactic Secrets were never meant to be a part of them!"

"With all due respect, sir-"

"Fuck your respect, Everett," he snaps, leaning over the desk, bracing both hands against it by his fingertips. "You compromised HC security, classified mission data, and... and... Goddamn it, Everett, you've pissed me off!"

"I can see that, sir," he said dryly.

O'Neill looks beyond angry and Telford only looks smug. "You think this is funny?" He snaps, but Young isn't sure which one of them he's talking to so he respectfully remains silent. 

"How long did the last one last?" He asks finally, clasping his hands between his lap again, leaning forward like he's having a discussion with Rush.

"What?" Jack looks confused now.

"How long did it take the last, fancy, mathematician to have a nervous breakdown?"

"That's not really relevant to the issue at hand, Colonel."

"I think it is." They are both staring at him and he gives it all he's got. "Rush has been on this base for less than a month. Already, he has cracked Chevrons One through Eight. In a _week_." He can't keep the pride from showing in his voice as David sucks in a breath. This going to work.

"He did what now?" Now he has O'Neill's attention. _Game,_ Young thinks. 

"He was given no data beyond what was purely necessary to understand the concept of the Gate's functionality and the loose framework of mathematics used to power it. Everything else he's pulled out of thin air. He's a university-trained and level mathematician who had an unfortunate luck of the draw, but that doesn't erase his talent or his understanding of what he's doing here. No one forced him to do this. He wanted to. And he _can_. He _has_. He _is_. He is crashing through every barrier that physics and math are throwing his way and he's doing it with an almost unbelievable amount of skill. No one even had to tell him what Pegasus even _was_ before he had figured out the Eighth was meant to get us there. He's been working non-stop on this. I can't even make him eat or sleep. He's doing this, General. He's _doing it_."

David is scowling now and O'Neill is sitting down for the first time since this meeting started. "Sounds like Daniel, really." 

_Set_. 

Jack takes a deep breath, suddenly looking his age now that his fury has passed. "Fine." He says, letting his head dip forward slightly. "Carry on, Colonel. But I want him watched when he's ransacking our servers next time." 

~*~

David falls into step with him but Young has no desire to stay that way, purposefully speeding up his own walk until Telford is practically jogging to keep up. "Everett, he had to know!" 

Whirling on the man who has been his best friend for twenty years, he jabs a finger at him, nearly upsetting both of them when he stops so abruptly. "Yeah, well, who said it had to be _you_?" He hisses. He hates this, hates David, hates how he is possibly throwing away his only real friendship for a man he has known for less than a month. Hates the way the savage tone in his voice already sounds so much like Rush. What else will this man do to him? But, he thinks also, what else will he do _for_ him?

"You're creating a liability, Everett," David says quietly, as though they have not attracted the attentions of everyone in the entire wing of the building. "Look, I didn't want to say this in front of O'Neill," he begins, steering Young by the elbow off to one of their familiar door nooks.

"Say what?" He asks flatly.

"Have you ever considered that Rush is doing this _too_ easily?" 

"What is that supposed to mean?" He doesn't add more emotion into his tone. 

"All this stuff with the Chevrons and all, it's very impressive. Unless it isn't."

"Just what are you implying, David? Think he cheated off of someone else's homework?!"

"Yes, actually," he replies, still sounding amiable in the face of Young's anger. "Have you ever considered that the man might be a Lucian Agent?"

Young glares at him then, losing more respect by the second. "Are you being serious? I found him at a _slave auction_ , David. One _you_ dragged me to. How are they going to plant someone there? How are they going to make me find this person, there? How are they going to make me look at him and... and agree to... You're insane."

"Am I? You're wheeling an awful lot of bets on the head of one slave, Everett. There are spies everywhere and the man you bought that day might no longer be the man you're sleeping with, have you thought about that?"

"We are not... He is the same person! He's just getting to actually _act_ like one! Why does that piss you off so damn much?!" Young hates how bitter his voice has become. He should be celebrating his win with O'Neill, should be packing for the Daedalus, should be listening to Rush make tutting sounds as he assaults the bathroom mirror with another round of penmanship. Not fighting with his best friend in a crowded hallway about conspiracy theories and... and... attacks on Rush's character, he realizes. "I don't have to listen to this." He snaps finally, shoving past the other man and storming back towards the elevator that will take him back to his room's floor. 

"Maybe you don't have to, Everett!" David calls after him, sounding remarkably unaffected by his anger. "But maybe you should!"

Snarling, Young punches the close door on the elevator and hates that the last thing he sees is Telford's smug face.

~*~

When he gets back to his and Rush's quarters, the door is open. There is writing on the walls now and he can't even remember how it happened and he can't even imagine how Rush managed to write all the way up to part of the ceiling.

But Rush isn't writing. He isn't scribbling, or pacing, or stalking. Isn't talking to or fighting with himself. 

He's sitting in the desk chair, marker capped and closed on the table top. 

And he is smiling.

 _Match_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God so MANY MORE ITALICS
> 
> They're just so [CLENCHES FIST] _ITALIC_


	7. Chapter 7

Young stares at him for a long moment, unable to stop himself from breaking into a smile of his own. "You did it?" He asks incrediously.

"I did it," Rush replies, sounding too wonderous to even be tired. 

With a whoop, Young is lifting him from the chair, hooking his hands under each of Rush's shoulders and pulling, spinning the man around in a dizzying dance of pure _joy_.

Rush has done it. Rush has _done it_. No one else could, no one else even came close, and it's been a month and he's broken the toughest code they've ever seen on this, or any other, planet. Rush has succeeded where more than eight brilliant, certified and trained and valued mathematicians have failed.

When he drops the other man after he feels like he's too dizzy to continue, Rush stumbles back, falling to sit awkwardly on the bed and Young sinks into the chair, unable to keep a broad grin off his face. "You did it," he repeats, stunned and full of pride he can't contain.

"...I think," Rush offers tentatively. 

Some of the mirth drops from Young's face. "What do you mean, you 'think'?" He asks deliberately, letting the doubt sink into his voice.

"Do you know what a mathematical proof is?" Rush asks, face still flushed from being spun around.

"It's where you use more math to see if an another piece of math is correct."

"That's..." Rush palms a hand over his face, smearing oil across his glasses. His hair is as stringy as the day Young first saw him and he wonders when the last time the other man showered. "That's an inelegant but rudimentary response. Proofing is proving an axiom, a statement assumed to be true. I don't know how to explain it properly without a huge series of lessons on advanced mathematics and logic. Time I assume we do not have."

"Not really." Young clasps his hands under his lap again, feeling doubt creep into his voice.

"I can't proof it until I have all the data. And the only way to get that is to actually dial a Gate."

"Where did you learn about Gate dialing?" Young asks then, suspicious.

Rush has the good grace to look embarrassed now. "When I was using the computer."

"How much did you... learn?" He drawls, remembering well Rush's innocent curiosity that had almost left one or both of them dead on the floor.

"I know Gates need power. If I'm right, this dial is gonna require a hell of a lot of power."

"What _is_ it?" He clarifies after the confused expression on Rush's face, "What are we dialing?"

"It's not... It's not an Area Code. It's... It's not a fixed point in space at all." 

"What does that mean?" He rumbles, suddenly distracted by the way Rush's collar flexes when the man swallows.

"Whatever we're dialing, it's very far away. And it's _moving_."

~*~

Young watches Rush sleep. 

It's the first time in God-knows-how-long, and Rush has grown a beard and has hair as unkempt as the day that he first bought him. (Rush had looked so surprised when he'd offered him first use of the shower, like he couldn't remember the last time he'd had one). Everything looks new and surprising to Rush. Like he's never seen it before. (The way he'd fumbled with the seatbelt the first time, leaving the car door open because it hadn't occurred to him to shut it). 

Could it be because it _was_ new? If David was right, this might be the first time Rush had encountered Tau'ri technology, lifestyles, behaviors. But he didn't believe, in his gut, that Rush had been compromised. Rush just felt too... genuine, too proud of himself in the odds with his condition in society. (The way he'd stepped up to David's taunts, when someone playing a 'good' slave would have just shut up and taken it). 

Rush was too strong, too proud, and too talented to be a plant. Young likes to think he would have noticed a change in the man if he'd been brainwashed during their time together before coming to Cheyenne Mountain. And there was no way a Lucian Agent could be roaming around these halls. Rush was too damned _earnest_ to be a plant. 

Finally, regretting it immensely, he reached out to shake Rush awake. 

"Come on," he said simply. "It's time."

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know absolutely _nothing_ about maths. I took a Logic and Critical Thinking class in college so I'm working off my half-memories and what I can dig up online. Apologies if it's all wrong. (Shhhhhh Shhhhhhh)


	8. Chapter 8

"Where are we going?" Rush asks finally, dragging his little red suitcase by the handle again as Young walks slightly ahead of him, duffle over one shoulder, the other carrying what looks to Rush like an attaché case. "And don't talk to me about Kansas."

Young glances over his shoulder, smiling at the other man's persistence. "Toto, we're not going to-"

"And don't tell me any shite about it being above my paygrade," Rush snaps, but there is no malice behind it, as usual. "My paygrade has more than been settled."

"You ever been in a spaceship, 'Doctor'?" He asks innocently, using his new teasing nickname for the other man easily as day.

"Don't call me- ...A what?!"

~*~

The airship in front of them is enormous, Rush realizes, taking up the huge hangar that barely seems to contain it.

"The Daedalus," Young says by way of introduction, dropping his bag to hand the briefcase to the waiting security personnel. The airman studies the paperwork, their identifications, and finally, the letter of orders drawn up by General O'Neill himself. Finally, the man nods, satisfied.

"Where is this taking us exactly?"

"You remember your Eighth Chevron, right?"

"We're going..." Rush can't seem to keep his mouth open to make words or closed to avoid looking shocked. Young wonders if he's imagining the other man looking a little green around the edges. 

"Don't tell me you get airsick, Doctor," He says playfully, leading him towards the open cargo ramp.

~*~

Rush spends the entire day plastered to the side of the observation deck's windows. From the ascent, where he had been advised to sit down and strap in, he'd merely decided to sit in the floor as the Earth slipped down and away from them. All-in-all, Young thinks he is taking it fairly well. He feels proud. Rush is behaving as he'd hoped, cleverness and curiosity cresting over fear and doubt. This is going to work, he realizes.

Some people brought flowers. He is giving Rush a whole new galaxy.

~*~

When they arrive in Pegasus, they take position around a simple planet, not far but not too near to Atlantis.

This is meant to be a simple check-in, albeit one draped in luxury with dignitaries and personnel from all over the program. This is meant to be a show of force and a sounding board for new information and theories. The interplanetary conference that will be going down on the planet below in two days time will be blown completely when his team presents them with their new findings. With _Rush's_ findings. 

Their quarters about the Daedalus are far more spacious and grand than the ones in HomeWold Command. There's even a queen-sized bed. Briefly, he imagines tumbling Rush into those covers and feeling out those hips under his thumbs again. Imagines using his teeth to unzip the man's endless collection of sweatshirts, and just reveling in the feel of his skin under his. Shaking his head, he dismisses these thoughts as Rush reappears out of the bathroom, freshly bathed, bent at the waist, still toweling dry his hair. He's wearing a simple white cotton tee-shirt and soft sleep pants, drawn up at the waist by a string. "The water pressure is really something else," he comments, throwing his hair back from his face as he finishes and straightens up. 

He looks well-rested for the first time in weeks, smiling faintly as he combs through his hair using the brush on the dresser, watching Young instead of himself in the mirror. "You going in next?" His collar is water-resistant so it just does its usual business of standing out on Rush's skin like a brand. Young can never stop looking at it when he gets close to the other man. It haunts him as it compels him. Tempting and so off-limits all at the same time.

Clearing his throat, Young nods. This is bad, he thinks. David is not hear to mock him, but the ghost of the other man's laughter chases him into the steam-filled bathroom, where he makes no small show of stripping off his black, long-sleeved shirt and military-grade pants. Rush's jeans and sweater are piled in a corner behind the door and he feels a smile twitch his cheek. Rush is messy as hell, but that just endears him to the man even more. 

Stepping into the shower, he finds that Rush really wasn't kidding about the water. The heat and pressure feel amazing after weak showers pulled from thousands of miles of concrete to funnel through a facility that houses thousands of people. He groans then, leaning his head against the wall, letting the water stream across his back, the heat working through kinks and soreness he hadn't even known were there. This is bad, he thinks again. It doesn't take long before his hand is closing over his half-hard erection. The shower smells like Rush, like his shampoo and shaving cream. It's the shaving cream that haunts him most of all, imagining Rush oh-so-carefully navigating the razor around his sharp chin and lower to his throat, around that adam's apple and over the top of his collar... 

With a soft sigh, Young feels his hips melting away as his arousal is finally released into the teeming waters. Gasping for breath while trying not to swallow any water, he tries to get a hold of himself. This is why he always lets Rush take the first shower, he knows. Because inevitably, Young finds himself thinking things he shouldn't, feeling things he shouldn't. It isn't even erotic, the idea of another man shaving, for Christ's sake, but it feels obscene the way Rush so innocently does the simplest things. 

This is bad. 

~*~

When he leaves the bathroom after scrubbing every inch of his skin into a red, stinging mess, he finds that Rush is lying on his back on the bed, glasses on his chest, holding one of his sudoku books in his left hand and lazily moving the pen from his mouth to the page with the other. 

Sighing, Young sinks into the desk chair, much more sturdy and cushioned than the one on Earth. 

"No more hot water?" Rush teases, not even looking at him.

"Too much, I think," he replies, voice warming at the other man's tone. "Think I got a little too much steam."

Picking up his glasses in one hand, he lets the book fall shut and rolls onto his stomach. "When do we get to use the Gate?"

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

The dinner is going to be exactly the sort of thing he hates, he knows. There will be boasts, will be toasts, will be a crush of people getting drunk and sharing secrets in order to have nice, steady hangovers for the next day when the actual science and military discussions begin. 

Rush looks nice in his white button-up shirt and dark brown trousers. (But then, Young thinks, Rush would look nice in a potato sack). Young feels too done-up in his crisp, black class-As. They aren't as stiff as the ordinary blue Air Force ones had looked on him a lifetime ago, but they still feel strange with the ranks on the collar instead of the shoulders. Rush is eyeing him speculatively, despite having seen him in black military clothes for most of the time they've known one another. 

"You look nice," He says finally, the lilt of his voice pronounced in a way that Young has learned indicates nervousness. 

"So do you." He rumbles in reply, wanting to plant a kiss on those soft lips, to reassure and still the other man's nerves. But boy would that be a mistake, he knows. He's nervous too, but for a different reason than Rush must be. Or maybe not. Young's never brought a slave to a military installation before and he knows Rush has never been to a gathering quite like this. 

"Come on, Doctor. It's time for us to travel in style."

~*~

Rush is staring upwards, even though there is nothing really to see. "It's not going to beam you up, Scotty," Young jokes, amused a wee bit by the other man's obvious discomfort.

"I'm sorry, what?" Rush asks, but before Young can answer, the particle beam spills golden light over them, and there is the rush of air that makes Young's ears pop and he reflexively closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, Rush has already started moving, running his hands over the carved side of the wall, where the HomeWorld Command logo has been chiseled in massive detail, panning above their heads. But then Young realizes he's not looking at the wall at all. On the other side of the room, there is a floor-to-ceiling viewing window, showing a space crowded with personnel from various institutions, all in HC black, with all manner of pallets and other items strewn about in orderly piles. And in the dead center of the teeming scene, it rises, some 20 feet above their heads.

"It's..." Rush sounds breathless. 

Closing one hand over Rush's shoulder, Young can't keep the grin off his face. "I promised you, didn't I?"

Together, they stand side-by-side, staring at the Stargate. 

~*~

He wants to go down immediately, because of course he does, but Young has to reel him in and remind him of their current mission. There will be time for Gates later. Now, though, they are growing close to being late for dinner.

As soon as the dining room doors are opened, Young realizes too late his mistake. 

At the tables, the dignitaries and high-ranking officers are chatting and drinking already. And on the floor, kneeling on pillows, are their slaves.

Rush balks then, stumbling back against Young as he takes a reflexive step backwards. They stand there, chest to back for a moment while Young steadies him with a grip on his arm. Finally, Rush shrugs it off and whirls on him, hair flying. 

"I didn't kno-" He begins, raising his hands reflexively but Rush is shouldering past him as if to leave the room entirely. "Rush!" He snaps, reaching out to close his right hand over Rush's left wrist. Held fast, Rush stops dead. But he will not look at Young. "I've never... been to one of these before, where people could bring their sl..." The word dies on his lips because he hates to think it, let alone voice it.

"Their 'property', Colonel?" He spits, actual spittle leaving his mouth and glistening in the air and he still hasn't turned to look at Young's face. 

"Will you just please come in and sit down?" It's an honest request, not a command. He lets go of Rush's arm. 

Finally the smaller man sags and seems to lose all of his steam. "I am _not_ sitting in the floor."

When they finally reenter the room, Young moves through the room, one hand on Rush's shoulder, pushing him lightly in front of him as their navigate the space. He finds his assigned seat, on one unassuming end away from anyone but other mid-ranking military personnel. There are only two other slaves in this area, both on the floor, one being literally _pet_ by his owner, another colonel that Young has never met. 

"Excuse me," Young says, grabbing the arm of a nearby server before the man can even ask him what he wants to drink.

"Sir? What can I do for-"

"Mr. Rush will be needing a chair."

~*~

Dinner is an awkward affair, many people shooting them glances and even glares. Young ignores them but a flush has crept up Rush's neck, making his collar stand out even more than usual and not for the first time, Young wishes with all his being that the damned thing wasn't _white_. 

But the memory of Rush pressing the tips of one hand to the case with a wistful expression, reminded of _something_ by that thin strip of white leather... Young had handed over his credit card before they'd even tried the damn thing on. It had taken two fittings before the leather had been cut down enough for Rush's slender throat, but in the end, the fit was perfect. Like a glove, the collar master had said proudly. And Rush had looked proud too. He doesn't look proud now, staring at his plate, fork held with unnecessary force in his right hand, the other clenched around the goblet of water he'd requested (Young had requested, because the server had ignored Rush's small voice when he'd asked). 

The girl in the floor, looking barely old enough to drive, let alone be sold to a military officer, tries to make small talk, leaning back on her hands until she can look up at Rush. If she's upset that he's sitting in a chair, she isn't showing it. He ignores her and stares at his plate. Finally, she gives up and returns to her own, held balanced in her lap. They are all served the same food, at least.

Dinner takes too long and Young cannot stand a moment of it. He reaches one hand out to brush his knuckles over the back of Rush's tightly-clenched fist, and Rush shakes him off. Just as suddenly, he looks startled and ducks his head again, hair covering his face except for the way his glasses poke free. "I'm sorry," he says softly and loosens his death grip on the fork. Taking a drink of his water, he puts his hand flat on the table. Taking this for the invitation that it is, Young covers the back of his left hand with the palm of his own right. 

The girl in the floor watches with interest but never says a word.

~*~

Rush follows him almost meekly through the hallways, not even bothering to stop and stare at the Stargate in the viewer's window. He just stares at the ground and Young knows he is still humiliated. It hadn't occurred to Young - he'd never seen a meeting like that before, with the pillows and the plates in laps. Never seen a server pretend like a person speaking didn't exist just because they happened to be wearing a collar. ('Less than half a person,' he can hear Rush snarling in the back of his head. He just hadn't realized how true that still was.)

He can sense it coming the minute they're back on the Daedalus, before they even make it to the block housing living quarters. It's in every line of Rush's body and he palms open the door (something that had wondered Rush the first time he'd seen it happen), and he decides he is prepared for it because things have consequences. 

He just stands there and lets Rush deck him across the face. 

~*~


	10. Chapter 10

Rush hits him once, right across the side of his face, sending him spinning into the door they've just closed. He takes another hit to his left side, just above the kidney, and then there is a hand on his collar. He looks up to see Rush raising one hand as though to punch him again, but the other man stops, falters, and lets him go. 

Stalking across the space, Rush looks like he's looking for someplace to escape, before storming into the bathroom and slamming the door. "Rush-" Young begins, cradling his aching jaw in one hand, but when he tries the knob it is unsurprisingly locked. "Shit, Rush, I didn't know. I swear to you that I didn't know."

There is silence from the other side of the door. 

"...I should have... checked the arrangements or something. Or just left you here, I don't know. I just thought... You're going to be meeting all those people tomorrow anyway so I thought..." He trails off, wondering just what the hell he thought anyway. Examining his face in the dresser mirror, he can see that the right side of his face is bright red and he wonders if it will bruise by tomorrow. Won't that look rich, he thinks savagely. But he deserved it, deserved both hits and the one Rush hadn't even followed through on. 

Leaning against the door, pressing his aching cheek against it, he says quietly, "I'm sorry, Rush. Nicholas. I'm sorry." 

The man's given name sounds alien on his tongue for some reason, but that seems to do the trick because the door unlocks with a loud click. "Don't fucking talk to me," Rush says simply, unbuttoning his shirt in a huff, revealing a long, lean back to Young's too-hungry gaze, before he yanks his tee-shirt over his head. 

There's a lot less grace in the way he kicks off his slacks before rummaging around the floor for his sleep pants, but Young is eating up every inch of the man's skin before it's swallowed again by thin, too-thin cloth. He leaves the pants and shirt where they land in the floor, crawling into the bed before remembering his glasses. Swearing, he yanks them off only to have Young lean over and reach out for them, taking them from his suddenly unresisting hands. 

Setting them on the dresser, Young decides to do his own weird striptease, yanking on the collar of his jacket, sighing when his throat doesn't feel as constrained. Shucking the jacket, he leaves his long-sleeved shirt on before unfastening his own pants. He sleeps in his boxers and it's never occurred to him that Rush might actually mind. Young slides into the bed beside him, leaning on one arm to watch the smaller man who is still radiating anger from every line of his body. 

"You swear you didn't know," He mutters quietly, so soft that if Young hadn't been paying so much attention to the hair clinging to the man's lips, he might have missed it. 

"I didn't know," he replies honestly.

"I'm sorry I hit you," comes the husky reply. It's the first time either of them has ever apologized for any of the violence they've visited upon one another in the two months they've known one another (that one has owned the other, that part of his brain that sounds like infuriated Rush adds helpfully). But Rush doesn't sound infuriated now. He sounds tired. Bone-tired, in a way that Young never even saw those nights in Cheyenne Mountain when he'd been sleep-deprived and worked to the point of exhaustion for weeks. 

Realizing Rush is waiting for him to say something, he sighs. "...I would have decked me too."

"What are you going to tell your fancy friends at your meetings tomorrow?" Rush asks quietly. "About your face," he clarifies, sensing Young's confusion. 

"I'll tell them that I was a jackass and it finally caught up to me." He replies, voice low now as he palms the light, leaving the room in near-total darkness. There's a faint light from the bathroom, casting the room in shadows and showing clearly the planes of Rush' face.

"Why are you doing this, Colonel Young?" He asks, voice still soft and tired. 

Young doesn't know what he means, but he reaches out the knuckles of his left hand, up over the man's shoulder, to graze gently across the sharp cheekbone there. Rush sighs then, closing his eyes. "I didn't know," he says again, but he can tell now that the other man believes him. 

Pushing his luck, he turns until he is lying completely on his right side. Lifting his left arm again, he lets it lower slowly, ever-so-slowly, until he is holding the other man. Rush lets out another huff of air and collapses backwards, rolling into the gap between them until he is pressed against Young's chest. Young can't keep the gentle smile off his lips. Rush is already asleep.

~*~

The next morning, Rush is a mess. 

He can't find clothes he likes. His shoes are scuffed. His hair won't lay right. His glasses are crooked. Young sits on the bed mildly, holding the sudoku book, not working any puzzles, just taking in the way Rush has filled them out, all inkpen and never pencil, as though he is always confident his answer is correct. Area Codes, he thinks. Of course Rush is always correct. The human tornado that is Rush comes to a halt when he cries out suddenly from the bathroom. 

Young is on his feet in an instant, and he can see in seconds what has happened - Rush has cut himself with his razor, the blood welling on that pale throat, dripping lightly onto that white collar. 

"Christ, Rush," he says too quickly, grabbing for a hand towel. Pressing it gently, he covers the wound and simultaneously wipes the collar clean in one moment of efficiency. "You're going to slit your own throat, shaving like that."

"Yes, _yes_ , well some of us don't have time to lollygag about all day on the bed!"

"Lolly- What are you pissed at me for?" He lets Rush take over the towel and looks at his own bruised face in the mirror over the other man's shoulder. They make eye contact in the mirror but it is Rush this time who looks away first. "Why are you so nervous?"

"Oh, I don't know, Colonel," He begins, in that sharp voice that lets Young know he knows exactly where to begin. "Maybe it's because I've been bought and sold to a man who keeps _secrets_ for a living and who trucks in actual _intergalactic_ travel and warfare, who brought me literally lightyears from our _planet_ to present a report on a mathematical theory that doesn't even have a fucking _proof_ yet, knowing it will just be met with suspicion and disbelief because it came from a bloody _slave_ -"

Before he can continue, Young closes his mouth over his. 

They stand there for a moment, Rush closing his eyes reflexively and Young doing his damndest to keep them open in order to drink in the sight of the other man's tension leaving his face, down his neck, and then his shoulders. Relaxing from just a kiss, Rush brings his hands up to fist on Young's jacket, not pushing, just anchoring himself there. It's not like the first time he kissed Rush, he realizes. He's not drunk and Rush isn't scared and for a moment, they are just two men sharing one kiss.

He still tastes like inkpens and coffee, though.

~*~

The briefing grinds to a halt when Rush presents his theorem. 

They can hear the shuffling of papers, the soft clearing of throats. Someone is whispering to someone else and Young is certain he might have even heard a small laugh from somewhere to their left. Rush just stands there, glasses blanking out his expression where he stands in front of the projector, showing his calculations in simpler, easier to digest mathematics (that still make no sense to Young and he doubts it goes any differently for half of the room). 

Finally, one man speaks up. "So why do you think it's not a fixed point?"

Rush sighs, the tension broken finally, and he clutches the podium like he might fall without it. "That's an excellent question, Mr...?"

"Volker. Doctor Dale Volker." The man says, half-standing as though he's about to shake hands. Sitting back down, he clears his throat. "So yeah. Why is it an unfixed point?"

"Because it has to be." Rush turns to the board where the equations are being projected, and grabs a marker from the whiteboard being used as a screen. Without any hesitance or explanation, he begins scribbling, covering the expanse in solid black numbers and symbols. Some people in the room are shifting now, and Young realizes some of them _can_ understand this kind of math. 

"All Gate addresses are a mathematical equation," Rush begins, sounding every ounce a mathematics professor in a lecture hall. "Each Glyph is a three-dimensional point in space. The center points are calculated from these points, creating the First through Sixth Chevron System used in the Milky Way. But the Eighth Chevron, found not at the end, but clustered into the address itself, creates a distance modifier."

He looks over his shoulder before finishing, making eye contact specifically with Dr. Volker. "The Ninth Chevron isn't just a distance modifier. It's _velocity._ "

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All math and shaky science are my fault and heavily researched (and probably misunderstood) from the Stargate Wiki, Gateworld Forums, Wikipedia, Reddit, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Stack Exchange.


	11. Chapter 11

"We need power," Rush says quietly. He is leaning over a computer, Dr. Volker at his side, both of them alternating using the touch screen. "Something that can create a great enough power source to power the Gate sufficiently."

Young feels positively voyeuristic watching them, a quiet, almost flirtatious, back-and-and forth about astrophysics and mathematics. Apparently each are lacking in the other area, so coming together is the most expedient for everyone.

"Naquadria," Volker says finally.

Rush's eyes widen slightly and he catches his glasses with one hand, pushing them up automatically. "But where would we even begin to find a source-"

"There's a source," Volker promises. "But getting clearance to use it is going to be a pain in the ass."

~*~

"Absolutely not." 

Young knew this answer was coming, but he has a response that he hopes with convince the General. "It's only a matter of time before the Lucian Alliance realize what they've been sitting on and dial the Chevron themselves," he warns. 

"If they could have solved the equation, they would have done it by now," David interjects, and Young isn't even sure why he's even included in this conference. 

"It's really only a matter of time," He repeats. "By the time we manage to build the requisite base, it might be too late."

General O'Neill sighs in that exasperated tone that lets Young know he's won out. "If, and that's a big _if_ ," he adds tiredly, "If the money comes through, you'll have your damned base. But we're risking a lot on the mathematics of one... person," he amends and Young is grateful even if David looks pissed off. 

"Thank you, sir. I'll inform the crew."

He all-but flees back to the room housing the long-range communication devices, happy when David doesn't follow for once. Money, he thinks, always money. But it's worth it, he knows, deep in his bones. _Rush_ is worth it.

~*~

It takes nearly three months for the finance committee to even meet to discuss the project. During that time, Young spends a lot of time on the stones, in conferences on the ship, on paperwork in the office he's been given. 

Rush busies himself with Volker, going over equations and angles of projection and power outputs, Young tells himself he doesn't mind, that he is happy that Rush has found a friend. Tells himself that this is good, that someone sees Rush as a whole person and is treating him with as much respect and care as he would anyone else. Tells himself he is not jealous, not at all. 

But he sees the way they say goodbye, Rush reaching up to clasp Volker on the arm, and Volker returning the gesture, too high to be a handshake, more like a light squeeze of the arm before the elbow. It's a stranger gesture and Young wonders where they got it from, but he tries to ignore it. He's not jealous. But Rush has never touched him like that, he knows. Probably never will. 

When they're in their room, Rush is subdued and almost docile. He works on his equations on the whiteboard they've squeezed into one corner, wipes it clean in fits sometimes, but with less intensity and rage as he once did. Sometimes he lays on his back on the bed, glasses on his stomach, doing sudoku with a blue inkpen. 

That's when Young watches him the most. Rush looks positively domestic like that. He remembers him putting away groceries and doing dishes in Young's apartment those first two weeks, remembers how it stirred something in him to see him looking so ... in place. Like he belonged there. Like he belonged with Young.

He lets Young kiss him. 

Carefully, Young takes both of Rush's hands in his, threading their fingers together. Rush does not resist this. He leans into Young's touch, until they are standing chest to chest. Unlacing their fingers (with a stab of regret), he settles for cupping the back of Rush's head, sinking his fingers gently into that thick, long hair. With his other hand, he cradles Rush's chin and kisses him deeply. Rush always tastes like ink and smells like whiteboard markers, but Young revels in it. Sometimes Rush just stands there, making Young feel guilty, but sometimes he raises his arms to hug against Young, pulling them tighter. Young lives for these moments, to feel Rush clutch at his shoulders and back. It feels intimate, feels so good. 

They never have sex.

He never tries to push Rush down, to cage or pin him, never holds him by the wrists or shoulders on the bed. Rush is like a deer when he is kissed and Young doesn't want to spook him with a repeat experience of the time, long ago, when he'd tried to press the man down in a drunken power trip. They never speak of that night, never speak of the fights they've had, the violence they've done to one another. Never speak of the panic attacks Rush sometimes has when he's particularly high-strung and on edge. Young just holds him, when he's shaking and when he's not. And that's enough.

~*~

David Telford arrives on the Hammond four weeks later, disrupting Young's patience, calm, and possibly his career in the process. 

He is there to assess and question Young's authority. As though David has the rank and the ability to decide if Young is ready to take over command of what is now being codenamed Icarus. 

"You can't be in command and be an Away Team leader," David reminds him, sitting on the corner of Young's desk, irritating the piss out of him by his mere presence. 

"I can try," he grits out, pushing his reading glasses up on his nose, unconsciously mirroring the way Rush does the same with his own. "General O'Neill-"

"Wasn't in command when he lead SG-1."

"It can be done, David. It just takes a good backing staff to cover the gaps during missions. I can have that - we have time to assemble that kind of team."

"But should you, Everett? Everyone knows Senator Armstrong is spearheading the fundraising for your little project, based solely on the say-so of a-"

"Stop talking," Young growls out, shooting the other man a murderous glare. "I think you're just upset that this command slipped through your fingers. You're trying to attack me, attack Rush, because you're _jealous."_

Telford looks at him for a long moment and then jerks his shoulders, straightening his posture before standing off of the desk. "You've changed, Everett. You never should have bought that slave." 

He leaves the room without another word and Young goes back to reading Volker's report on planetary stability when naquadria deposits make up the majority of a planet's core. It's going to be dicey, but his projections look like it's going to sort itself out. They can do this, he thinks, smiling faintly. This is going to happen. Whatever Rush has found - they're going to go there. 

If he could only kill the nagging doubt in the back of his mind. There is something about Rush that he can't put his finger on lately and it is making him nervous. He trusts Rush implicitly. But something is somehow wrong. 

Deciding not to dwell on it, he heads to the mess, only to find Rush and Volker sitting across from one another at a table, eating and leaning forward as though whispering. A pang of jealousy stabs through him. Young thinks darkly suddenly. He's had just about enough of Dr. Dale Volker. 

~*~ 


	12. Chapter 12

The journey back to the Milky Way is largely unexciting. 

The eighteen days go by fast, Young thinks, watching Rush try to curl into a ball, taking the blankets with him. He hasn't been feeling well these past few days and Young reaches out now to feel his forehead. Rush is clammy to the touch but his head is hot under Young's palm. A fever then. "I'm going to take you to the Infirmary," he says finally, but Rush makes a shushing noise and burrows deeper into the bed. " _Rush_ ," he admonishes, but the other man ignores him.

"'m fine," he slurs finally, uncurling a little to reach for Young's hand. He lets him have it easily and Rush presses his palm against his cool cheek. "'jus need a little sleep is all..." His accent is strong and thick with sleepiness and Young feels his resolve break down in the face of Rush's absolute trust of him. He's willing to be this vulnerable in front of Young but no one else. 

With a sigh, Young climbs into the bed, still fully clothed, and curls around Rush's hunched body. He wraps one arm around and under him and lets the other hand rest in the hollow of Rush's throat, just barely brushing his collar. This working, he thinks to himself. His doubts of Rush feel ridiculous, laying in this bed, cuddling the other man. Rush is fine, he thinks. Rush is _his._

~*~

When Rush's fever breaks, he is back hunched over the desk, scrolling endlessly through the computer, writing code and checking other people's code at the same time. Young knows he needs more laptops but he's only allowed to check out one and Rush isn't supposed to have one at all, despite his seniority on this project. (Not that he's officially called a senior advisor, of course). 

Young still fusses over him, draping a blanket around his shoulders, which Rush takes gratefully, tucking around himself snugly. He brings the man warm tea, something he knows he likes, and Rush drinks it down like he's never had it before. 

"When will we visit the Icarus planet?" He asks one day. 

Young doesn't have an answer to that. They're heading back to the Milky Way now that the Hammond has arrived to protect Atlantis in their absence. "P4X-351 is in the Milky Way about 21 light years from Earth. We can't Gate there though. We'll have to use the ship."

"The core is too unstable to support frequent Gate travel," He agrees, draining the last of his tea. Holding the cooling cup, he looks down at his lap. "Am I even allowed to go through a Gate, Colonel?"

It's a loaded question and, once again, one Young doesn't have an answer to. Rush is his, his property. He has the right to take him wherever he goes, provided it's arranged beforehand. Rush has clearance paperwork now, and brand new papers with a nicer photo and his whole name displayed this time. Young' own ID is about ten years old and looks like shit. "You go where I go," He says finally.

"And you're going through the Gate?" Rush asks quietly, still studying his mug as if it contains all the answers of the universe.

"I'm going through the Gate." 

Rush lets out a long sigh and his shoulders relax some. "Please don't leave me alone." His voice is far away and haunted. Young thinks of the mysterious violinist again, dying and leaving him to be remanded to the brutal slave market where he'd been jostled and picked over, only to be left alone at last, because he was, as the auctioneer had put it, an 'oddity'. Rush is not an oddity, he thinks. Rush is beautiful and brilliant and a spark of light in the drudgery Young hadn't even realized his life had become.

Taking both of Rush's hands in his, he laces their fingers together, letting the mug drop to the floor between them, forgotten. "You go where I go," He repeats earnestly. Rush tilts his head up then, closing his eyes. When Young kisses him gently, Rush kisses him back.

~*~

Young steps out of the shower, combing his fingers over his short hair to get the last of the water out, and stops dead when he realizes that he and Rush are not alone in the room. 

"Oh, hi," Volker says, glancing up from where he is positively curved over Rush's shoulder, looking at the laptop with a frown. 

"Doctor," He says, unable to keep the growl out of his voice. 

Rush looks up then, unsure which one of them he's referring to. Young has taken to calling him that for months, and Rush has stopped protesting the nickname. 

"I have a meeting at 0900," he says finally, slipping on and buttoning up his jacket. "Have a good time doing... whatever it is you're doing.'

Rush waves absently, attention back on the laptop where he is making a stream of data fly from his rapid typing and sharp vision. Volker is obviously struggling to keep up, but he manages to turn and wish Young a goodbye with such sincerity that Young wants to punch him in the face. 

He really doesn't like that man.

~*~

They arrive on the Icarus planet before the base is even completed. The bones of a base are there, left over from Lucian mining operations, removing the precious naquadria from the planet's inner mantle. Even the Lucian scientists knew not to drill down to the volatile core. 

Volker spends more times in their room, or Rush goes to the science lab to pour over computers and equations there. Young stops by sometimes only to find Rush attacking a whiteboard or eating up more code from all of the massive computers. 

The only time he really sees Rush is when they're getting ready for bed.

Rush shucks his clothing and slips into the tee-shirt and soft pants he sleeps in, and Young strips down to his boxers. They climb into bed and Young spoons up behind him, nuzzling the hairs at the back of his throat. The collar always bumps his nose, jarring him for a moment, but Rush usually makes a soft noise of appreciation that wipes over Young's hesitation. He knows he wants Rush, his time, his attention, his body. But he has to abstain, has to work, has to wait. He wonders if Rush will ever consent to greater intimacy with him. _'Just get on with it!'_ he hears in the back of his mind. He cannot hurt Rush, he knows. And so he waits. 

In the end, he doesn't have to wait very long at all.

~*~


	13. Chapter 13

The base is open and they are living in it. The quarters are close again, forcing Rush to give up his precious whiteboard, but he's gone back to writing on the metal surfaces of the room, even taking the marker to the door again when Young isn't in the room. 

"What are you calculating?" He asks one day, stretched out on the bed, trying to read a well-worn and beloved copy of War of the Worlds. "The Chevron's been unlocked. You should be done, right?"

Rush makes an irritated clicking noise at him, continuing to mark up the door with his right hand and hug himself around the middle with the other. 

"Okay then," Young says, going back to his book. 

"It's about the planet's core," Rush offers then, still writing. He is using his 'lecture tone' and Young finds that kind of... hot. "The core is very, very unpredictable. The equation to lock the Ninth Chevron has to be exact. Otherwise, the entire planet will... well, implode."

Young sits up then, book falling forgotten to the floor. "It could what now?"

"The core is unstable. The naquadria makes it extremely violent in it's fluctuations. We need that raw power to open the Gate to that distance and to match the end point's velocity. But if we don't calculate it down to the last plank, the whole core could destabilize, causing the planet to collapse inward."

"And you were going to tell someone this when exactly?" He demands, letting the sharpness colour his voice. 

Rush has stopped writing and is holding the marker like a knife now. "I just did," he says, too lightly. 

"How long have you known this information?" Young is standing then, stepping forward until he is just behind the other man. 

"Volker and I have known since-"

"Volker! Always Volker with you!" Young shoves forward then, closing the distance between them, smashing Rush into the door. He hisses in the other man's ear then, unable to stop himself from raking his teeth across the soft lobe, "Do you let him fuck you, Nicholas?"

Rush explodes them, slamming his head back, kicking backwards blindly to hit Young's shin. The marker stabs at him and he manages to duck just before it slams into his eye. Rush fights so dirty, he thinks, nothing like the quiet man who had fallen asleep listening to classical music in his car. The assaults just keep coming, Rush kicking and punching at him, using things scattered around the room as weapons, books, an alarm clock, a cell phone charger. Young returns the violence, catching his flailing limbs and, with a sweeping kick that takes his legs out from under him, he lowers Rush to the floor.

Pinning him with both upper arms on either side of his shuddering and shaking frame, he manages to hold him relatively still. "You never answered my question, _Doctor_."

Rush suddenly goes completely still at the hissed out words, throwing his hair back, off if his face, making Young wonder where the hell his glasses went. "I have never been _fucked_ in my life," he snarls finally.

The confession hangs in the air for a moment, and then Young is on him in an instant, dropping to straddle him, grabbing his collar to kiss him hard on the mouth. This means Rush's arms are free, but instead of fighting, instead of hitting or pulling, they are _yanking_ , drawing Young down closer until their chests are touching. This is an odd parody of the gentle way they kiss sometimes, all violence and anger instead of tenderness and caution. There is no caution here and Young is not imagining the hard, insistent heat digging into his thigh. 

When he lets go of Rush's sweatshirt, he reaches down between them to spread the man's jean-clad legs instead. And Rush goes stock still. The hands leave his shoulders and Rush just lays there, gasping for breath. This is too much, Young realizes, petting one hand over Rush's thigh in an effort to be soothing. Rush shudders and tries to close his legs, but Young's whole body is in the way. 

He realizes with a start that Rush is _afraid_.

Slowly, carefully, he levers himself off the other man, standing up completely before offering a hand to pull Rush to his feet. He takes Young's hand, suspicion written across every feature and line of tension in his body. 

"I'm sorry," he lets out, voice still thick with lust. "I shouldn't have... said those things to you. Shouldn't have touched you like tha-"

"I wanted you to touch me," Rush says breathlessly.

"I... You what?"

Rush puts one cautious hand on Young's shoulder then. "I wanted these things. But... not..."

"Not like that." Young finishes.

"It just got so... out of hand. And I didn't think I was ready after all." The lilting accent is sweet and sorrowful at the same time and it cuts Young to his core, spreading guilt all through him. Rush had wanted to have sex with him - had wanted to _make love_ with him. And he threw him to the floor instead. 

Suddenly, there is a hand on the side of his face, holding him firmly but gently, pulling him down until their mouths touch. It's everything that Young loves, sweet and gentle, tongues tasting each other, running against teeth. The hand on his shoulder curves until it's cupping the back of his head, holding him firmly in the kiss he wouldn't stop even if he could. Throwing his own arms around the smaller man, he cradles the back of his head, fingers in that silky hair. It's grown so long now, he realizes, brushing past the other man's shoulders and across his upper back. He wonders almost hysterically what Rush would look like with a ponytail. 

When the kiss ends, Rush pulls his head away, leaning his head against Young's chest, curling into him as he listens to his heartbeat. "Are you still angry with me?" Rush whispers, voice almost lost in Young's shirt.

"No," he rumbles, clutching the other man tighter. "I'm sorry I was.... cruel... to you. What I said... What I _did_ was out of line."

Rush shrugs as much as he is able to in the position he's wormed his way into. "I hit you first."

"We shouldn't hit each other at all," Young admonishes quietly. 

There's a long moment and then he feels the other man nod. 

"What do you... what do you want to do now?" He asks, unsure what Rush will say or do. 

Finally Rush sighs, going completely boneless against him. "Take me to bed, Colonel." 

And so Young does.

~*~

Rush sinks backwards when his knees hit the bed, falling slowly and deliberately until he is lying sideways on the too-small bed. Young crawls over him, on his hands and knees, keeping his weight and bulk off the other man. Rush is a deer again, and he can't afford to spook him again, not now, not anymore. He needs this, he knows. And it looks like Rush might need it too. 

He kisses him again, and Rush opens for him, legs parting for Young to settle between, mouth firming to return the gentle pressure on his mouth. It's tender. Not bitter and sharp. It feels right now. Rush breaks the kiss again and whispers, "I don't know what to do..."

He'd spat at Young that he'd never been 'fucked' before. But Young doesn't want to 'fuck' him. He wants to give him something more pure and more gentle. He wants to make love.

Reaching down, he slowly begins to unzip Rush's sweatshirt, the blue one that drives Young wild when he's thinking about it in the shower. But this isn't a quick handjob in the shower. This is the real thing. Rush quakes under him when he lays him bare, letting the fabric fall to either side of his chest. He's never seen Rush's chest before, he realizes. Just his back and collar bones and that one time he'd briefly touched him through his clothes. The other man is thin, a bit of rib visible, but not too much. His nipples are dusky and dark and the trail down to his groin is faint and blond, at odds with the dark of his hair. 

Unable to stop himself, he licks his tongue experimentally across Rush's collar bone, the clavicle jutting out visibly from the rest of his chest. Rush moans and arches his back, pushing his body up into Young's sucking kisses and slips of teeth. He wraps one arm around Rush's back, holding him up, while the other braces beside the man's head. Rush tastes like soap and smells like his ever-present markers. Young finds the combination heavenly. But anything about this man would probably have the same result, he realizes. 

Rush's hands are carding through his hair, pushing down to scratch across the back of his neck, scraping against his shirt, deliberately digging into his skin. It feels electric and Young is plundering his mouth again, tasting that sweet, ink-stained tongue. Rush is hard again against his thigh and Young knows he is too, but it doesn't seem to be scaring Rush this time. 

"Jeans," Young grits out, lifting himself off of Rush with great difficulty. The other man looks up at him, eyes blown and dark, confusion settling over his features. "Jeans," Young says again, voice gravel after all this foreplay. 

Suddenly understanding, Rush drops his arms to his lap, fumbling to unfasten his pants with both hands. He looks nervous now and Young kisses his cheek gently. "We don't have to do this," He says quietly, sincere and trying not to sound pressuring. 

"I _want_ to do it," Rush sounds petulant, sounds cross. Laughing, Young kisses him again. Settling to kneel on either side of Rush's legs, he reaches down to help the other man with the buttons, unfastening the jeans and shucking the close-fitting material down his legs and off, and he flings them somewhere off the bed. Rush is still wearing his open sweatshirt and a pair of blue briefs that do nothing to hide his arousal. Young smiles at the thought that Rush matches his underwear with his his sweaters. It's unbearably cute. 

Leaning down, he opens Rush's pale, thin legs, as hairless as the rest of him. Softly, he peppers light kisses all over the man's inner thighs, leaving him squirming and gasping. The light, feathery kisses become sucking, insistent ones, and Rush moans then, a deep, throaty sound, slurring something that Young can't understand, but it doesn't sound like 'stop' so he keeps going.

Finally, finally, he reaches for the undergarment, gently folding it back and down, revealing Rush to his hungry gaze. This is what he's been waiting to see, after all those little glimpses and glances in the months they've spent together. Rush isn't too small, not too large. His foreskin is intact and Young experimentally rolls it back, making Rush cry out then, smacking one hand down to hit Young's head, but he's not sure if this is an attempt to stop him or goad him on. "Rush?" He can barely make his voice box form words at this point. He doesn't think he's ever been this aroused in his life. 

"Please, Colonel, please..." He's crying now, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Young lets go of him immediately, but Rush whines then, and manages a full sentence. "Please don't stop; God, don't stop..." 

Smirking, Young returns his attention to Rush's head, pulling the foreskin down to reveal the glans. Gently, he takes the whole thing into his mouth in one swift swallow and he slams one arm down to stop Rush from sitting up as the man positively screams. Hopefully the soundproofing is good here, Young thinks as he begin his oral assault. Otherwise they might have someone battering down the door to stop Rush from being murdered. 

But Young isn't murdering him, not really. He has absolutely no idea what he's doing as he draws Rush down deep. He closes and works his throat, going by instinct and what women have done for him in the past. It seems to be working, because Rush is shaking like a leaf and moaning like he's dying. Before Young can even think of pulling away, Rush is screaming again and something hot and thick spurts into his mouth. It doesn't take any imagination to know what it is, but Young swallows it down anyway, chasing the last traces, intrigued to taste something of Rush that doesn't taste like inkpens, he thinks with a smile.

"I want inside you," he mumbles, kissing around Rush's neck and clavicle, not wanting to put his dirty mouth on Rush's clean one right now. 

Rush shudders but he raises one arm to shakily point to the bathroom door. "There's... lotion..."

Young is off him in a second, crossing the space to the bathroom in two strides. There is a small cabinet full of mostly Rush's things, and he finds the vanilla-scented lotion easily. It's thin and runs over his fingers like oil and he's sure this will do the trick. 

Returning to the bed, he climbs back over Rush, who huffs at him in annoyance, giving him pause. "What?" he growls, licking his way up his throat, deterred only by the white collar there. 

"You're still wearing all yer clothes," Rush complains. In one inelegant gesture, he's ripping his shirt off, revealing a toned chest with a nest of dark hair covering the center. Rush looks at him in wonder, like he hasn't seen him every night since they've been sharing a bed. But maybe things are different now that his body is no longer off-limits, Young thinks as Rush reaches up to run his fingers softly over Young's abs. 

Leaving his pants on, he reaches down to practically rip Rush's underwear off, before kissing his inner thighs in apology for being so rough. Rush moans and hitches his hips, canting them in Young's direction. Unscrewing the lotion's lid, he allows a liberal amount to spill over his fingers. Rush cries out when the first one presses into him, proving to Young that yes, Rush must be a virgin, if he's going to be that responsive and that tight. 

It takes a lot of gentle give and take, thrusting a finger and removing it completely when it seems like Rush just can't take it, before pressing in again and stretching lightly when he can. Finally there are two fingers, and he takes his time thrusting them, before it occurs to him to spread them apart, coaxing Rush's muscles to do the same. Rush is sobbing now, loud, choked sounds that would be distressing if he weren't still shoving his hips down onto Young's fingers.

Young has dreamed of touching a man like this for most of his life, and wanted Rush since practically the day he laid eyes on him. It's everything he dreamt and the some. Finally, he can't stand it any more, reaching down to unbutton his fly and shift his boxers until he's springing free at last. There have been three fingers in Rush for several minutes and he is dying to bury himself into the other man's heat. Slicking himself with as much lotion as he can squeeze out, he pumps his aching erection. 

Rush screams again, a higher, more throaty and sob-strained cry, when Young pushes inside of him. He can't decide whether he wants to go in slow and give Rush time to adjust in increments or to just press all the way in and get it over for the other man ask quickly as possible. Reaching up, he catches the sobbing man by the face, forcing him to open his eyes and look at him. "Are you... okay? Rush, Rush, _Nicholas_ , are you okay?" 

"Slow... slow please..." The other man stutters out, every muscle in his body rock-hard and trembling. 

"I can do that," he promises, and inches his way inside, bit by bit, while Rush clenches and releases around him as the other man tries to relax. He still feels almost unbearably tight and Young has never felt so aroused. He's trying not to spill into Rush like a teenager but it's hard with the way he's wringing against Young. 

It's slow going, but eventually, he bottoms out in the other man's passage, and Rush is groaning again, scabbering his feet to get purchase as he arches his back again, pressing up towards Young. "You're perfect," Young whispers, grabbing his face and kissing him again, forgetting about Rush's semen still staining the inside of his mouth. Rush doesn't seem to mind, drinking down Young's kiss like a dying man finding an oasis in the desert. When he begins to rock his hips, moving in and out, little by little, Rush clings to him, still sobbing and moaning. He is gasping for air when Young fucks into him a little harder, and it only takes a moment for Young to feel the familiar loosening of his hip muscles. He s coming in the other man at long last and Rush is clinging to him, crying his name. 

Teeth raking Rush's throat, they spin and hit the side of his collar. It is like cold water over Young's post coital bliss. Rush's slave collar. Because Rush is a slave. His slave. Can a slave consent, really consent? He wonders desperately, blindly clinging to Rush's shoulders, where the sweatshirt is still bunched. Rush wanted this, he tells himself. Rush wanted this. But somehow, it still doesn't feel quite right. Rush is smiling sleepily at him, and he kisses him again, closing his eyes and trying to forget all his doubts. Rush wanted this, he thinks. And God only knows he did too.

~*~


	14. Chapter 14

A new scientist has joined Rush and Volker at their little mess table, Young realizes. More people are shipping in every day now, some military, some civilian. There are Away Teams and Mission Control teams being compiled and completed all the time. 

NC:1 is still being built, with a position for a secondary officer and marine officer with advanced combat training. Young will be commanding the unit. Rush will be his team's scientist. The proposal had met with outcry from certain parts of the organization, but O'Neill had green-lit the decision. Young doesn't trust leaving Rush at base without him, even though the man would be a wonder in the Control Room. There might be time for that, too, when NC:1 isn't deployed. 

The man sitting with Rush is barely taller than Rush and shorter than Volker. Young knows he's not much taller than Rush or the new guy, but Volker is taller than all of them, which always makes him cross for reason that have nothing to do with a superiority complex. He comes over to the table, watching the way Rush's eyes track over him, twin dots of pink staining his cheeks in response to Young's knowing look. "Colonel Everett Young," he introduces himself, stepping to stand neatly between the two men. 

Rush scowls at his behavior but the other man stands up and shakes his pro-offered hand. "Dr. Adam Brody," he replies, smiling. "You're ah..." He look past Young to Rush, who looks down at his food in an overly interested way. 

"I'm Rush's owner," He says curtly, ignoring the way Rush's fork scrapes across the plate. "It's good to have more science staff on board. Do you know where you'll be working?"

"Mission Control, sir. I'm an engineer. Rush sent for me specifically."

Young whips around to look at the other man, who is swallowing reflexively even though he is no longer eating. The white of his collar stands bright against his quickly darkening skin. "Sent for you specifically?" He asks mildly, despite the way he is glaring at Rush.

"Out of a list of possible candidates, sir," Brody responds, still standing awkwardly, looking stricken. 

"I didn't realize that Mr. Rush had that sort of authority," he continues, mild as milk, watching Rush's face turn darker by the second.

"Yeah well, sometimes he does," Rush snaps, standing up from the table hard enough to upset the chair. Giving Young a baleful eye, he navigates around the table and storms out of the mess. More than half the room has stopped talking and are staring after Rush. 

"Well that went well," Volker says glibly, returning to his food. Brody sits down beside him and stares at Rush's overturned chair. Having had enough of this, Young excuses himself curtly and follows Rush.

~*~

He finds the other man in the first place he thinks to look. 

Rush is sitting on the ground, back to the wall, knees drawn up to his chin. Behind and above him, a group of scientists and military personnel are moving around, unpacking crates and booting up new systems. Rush ignores them, staring up the ramp, eyes on the dormant Stargate. 

Sighing, Young slides down the wall to sit next to him, cocking one knee up and bracing his arm on it. The other splays out in front of them, bend slightly and brushing Rush's thigh. "You wanna tell me what that was all about?" He asks finally. 

Moodily, Rush continues to stare at the Gate, ignoring his presence. Finally, he offers one word. " _Owner_?" 

Running a hand over his face, Young lets out another sigh. "Are we back to this? I _do_ own you, Rush. You get a lot of freedom here, but I think you're overstepping quite a bit. Hand-picking personnel? Who authorized-"

"I did!" Rush snaps, curling both arms around his knees. "I get lists, videos, records, coming across my desk every day. Am I just supposed to let Volker choose every member of this base?!"

"That shouldn't even be Volker's responsibility!" Young snipes back. "You two have your heads together so much you're ignoring the rest of this installation. This is not the Volker and Rush show!"

"Oh, excuse me, how could I forget? It's the Everett Young show!" He replies, voice rising as he flattens his arms back down on either side of himself. 

Grabbing Rush's right forearm, he turns the man to face him as he kneels up to add some height to his position. "This _is_ my show, Rush. My command. I am actually the one in charge here. Just because you're my-" 

"Slave," Rush spits, as usual.

"You know, Rush, I thought we were past all of this," He says, gentling his voice some, but he doesn't let go of his arm. "I thought we'd made some peace."

"Just because I let you _fuck_ me doesn't mean you control me, Colonel." Rush snarls at him, staggering to his feet and ripping his arm free of Young's grip in the process. 

Young sighs for what feels like the hundredth time that day, rubbing his face with his hand again. "Whole lotta work."

~*~

The next time he sees Rush, it's nearly midnight. 

Sitting primly at the desk, puzzle book in hand, Rush ignores him when he palms shut the door. He licks the pen absentmindedly before putting it to the page, making a quick little figure Young knows is in exactly the right place.

Two can play the ignoring game, he thinks, yanking off his jacket before hanging it on the hook by the door. Without sparing the other man a glance, he begins stripping out of his clothes, boots first and then his shirt and pants. Leaving the boxers on, he heads to the bathroom, already missing the water pressure of the Daedalus. Rush glances over the top of his glasses as he moves past, but he doesn't move his head or his body.

Standing in the shower steam, Young feels confused. Only yesterday, they'd been basking in the afterglow and now Rush is furious with him again. What was he supposed to say? That he wasn't his owner? That it was okay for Rush to be _hiring_ staff members? Rush had snapped at him that he didn't control him. Doesn't he? Isn't that how this works? Isn't this his _job_ here? Rush is his first and only slave, but he knows a lot about slavery and how slaves can be and are treated. Rush is positively _pampered_ compared to most. He thinks of the man that day at the auction, seemingly three minutes from sending Rush 'down river' to be raped, abused, or any other type of horrors. What he has with Young is positively heavenly compared to the realities most slaves experience. 

Rush is _spoiled_ , he decides. The mysterious violinist had to be to blame, that and Rush's own ego and genius. She'd allowed him to be trained to a university level in mathematics, even gone so far as to get him a license to teach others! And here he is, bringing people on a cross-galactic flight to fill positions in _Young's_ base... Finishing up, he decides that he and Rush are going to have a little talk.

~*~

"We need to talk," He says simply. Rush sits there, still holding his sudoku book, but he isn't really looking at it anymore. There is stress telegraphed across that back now, and his head bobs with what Young knows is a slow, long-throated swallow. With a sharp, angry sound, Young reaches out to spin the chair around so they are facing one another. Rush looks up at him with alarm then, book falling half-forgotten in his left hand. He clutches the inkpen in the other like a knife. "We're going to talk," Young continues evenly, letting his frustration make his voice a growl. 

Loosening his death grip on the pen, Rush turns his body in the chair, neatly placing the book and pen down on the desk, just beside the closed laptop that has pretty much become only his. He never makes eye contact, but he does turn his body back to Young. "What is the issue, Colonel?" He asks, voice sounding disinterested. 

"I don't think you realize how this whole situation works... Doctor," he adds cruelly. 

"I made an executive decision based on qualifica-"

"You went above and beyond your station, _again_ , Rush!"

"My _station_?!" 

They are both shouting now and Young is looking around the room, scouting out things Rush could potentially use as a weapon when it comes to blows. He doesn't want to hit Rush, he knows, but by God, he will, if the man doesn't have the sense to shut his mouth and learn a little respect, he thinks with an inward snarl. But what had he said to Rush, just yesterday, when they'd been pressed together, chest to chest, in the space between the chair and the door. _"We shouldn't hit each other at all."_ Why is it so easy to resort to violence with this man, he wonders, not for the first time. 

Rush is too spirited, too proud, he knows. Rush is an excellent scientist, companion, and even lover, he knows. But he is completely unaware of his position in things, in _Young's_ position in things. It had taken a positively herculean effort to get the green-light for Rush to be part of an Away Team. And here he is, hand-selecting members of the base's crew? Does the man not realize how this works, he wonders incredulously. Does he not realize what he _is_?

He realizes the silence has spooled on too long and that Rush is quietly staring at him over the tops of his glasses. 

"I don't think you really understand how this whole thing works, Rush," He hears himself saying, voice flat and devoid of any emotion, repeating his earlier attempt at an opening gambit. 

"Is this the part where you tell me to shut up and know my place?!" Rush snaps, crossing his arms to his chest. 

"Got it in one," Young says darkly. "Do you have the faintest idea how lucky you are? Do you know what they wanted to do with you back there in that muddy little hellhole I found you in?! They wanted to get rid of you, to send you down the river, to let anyone do God-knows-what to you!"

"Yes, yes, it was so _gracious_ of you to save me," he spits back, not cowed by Young's vitriol. 

"I did save you, Rush. Took you to my home, took that collar off of you until we could find the one you wanted. Shelled out dollar after dollar, on clothes, on shoes, on books. On those glasses when you didn't even want to admit you needed them. I took you from a literal _hell_ and made you my... my _friend_."

"Is that what we are?" He asked, arching one eyebrow sardonically.

"Shut the hell up, Rush, or I will do it for you." His voice is black as pitch and Rush actually shivers, wrapping his arms around himself instead of just crossing them. "You cannot - you _will_ not be meeting with Doctors Volker or Brody unless I am present; do you understand?"

Rush's mouth hangs open in shock. Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. "I have work to-"

"You want to run your calculations, you do it from my office, where I can keep a goddamned eye on you. You want to write on the walls, you will do it there. You want files, folders, applications? We will review them together. At _my_ desk." 

"I have a perfectly fine office in which to-"

"Not anymore you don't. I'm serious, Rush. You need to know your place. Now get in the goddamned bed. We have an early start tomorrow."

Rush looks at the floor then, biting his lip, seemingly struggling to voice something (or not to).

"I said get in the goddamned bed, Rush." Young's voice is dark and flat again. 

He stands up from the chair, leaning over near the bed until he can collect his sleep clothing, left ignored the night before when they'd been naked in each other's arms. "May I have some privacy?" He asks, but his voice is soft this time.

"No," comes the curt reply. 

Rush attempts a shrug, but his shoulders are too tense to do more than lift and droop back down inelegantly. Turning his back to Young, He unzips his sweatshirt, peeling it off of one arm and then the other. The shirt comes over his head, vanishing his back from Young's gaze. He hesitates before unfastening his jeans. Skimming his hands over the waistband, he looks over his shoulder as though he is going to speak, before abandoning the thought. The jeans come down, revealing those shapely legs and the pert buttocks hidden with a pair of grey briefs. Young wonders suddenly if he hurts. When Rush steps into his sleep pants, he does so over-carefully and Young knows he must. 

It make something clench in his chest. Why are they fighting again, he wonders suddenly. Because Rush is proud and strong and beautiful? Because Rush over-stepped, he reminds himself savagely. But who let him? He wonders. Who gave him permission to be so proud, to hold his head so high? He knows the answer to that. He thinks of that first night, Rush so timid on his sofa, unable to comprehend why the thick, heavy, metal collar had been unfastened from his neck. Thinks of the way Rush had held him after his bender, even though he'd tried to... Something clicks just then and he realizes why Rush is still standing there, back to him, hands opening and closing in a nervous gesture. 

When he does turn, he leans away from Young, reaching only to lay his glasses on the desk. Long hair slithering around his throat, catching here and there on that goddamned white collar, Rush turns back to the bed. Only to stand there, frozen. He tenses further when Young takes a step forward, sliding one arm around his hip and up to fold over his chest, pulling him off-balance. Rush just _goes_ , sliding against Young's chest, his heart hammering under Young's palm. For a moment, he seems to lose a hint of tension, but then Young wraps his other arm in the same manner, pressing them completely back to chest. "Colonel Young..." Rush begins, licking his lips. Young can see the side of his face out of his peripheral vision. Rush looks terrified. 

"I'm not going to rape you, Rush," he says quietly and Rush slumps against him weakly, skin clammy and cool against Young's cheek. He recalls Rush's fever and the way he'd reached for his hand. Thinks of the expression on his face when he'd admitted last night that he didn't even know what to do. When he lets go of the smaller man, Rush steps forward, crawling into the narrow bed, curling into the wall in his usual position. Coming to spoon behind him, Young kisses the back of his head, wrapping him in his arms. There's a strange, yet familiar sound in the air then. With a sinking stomach, Young realizes Rush is crying.

"Rush," He whispers, skimming his hand until he can find Rush's, carding his fingers over the other man's before entwining them. "Rush..." Guilt gnaws at him and he regrets everything that's happened today. Everything. "Forget it," He says quietly. Misunderstanding him, Rush lets out a choked sob, scrunching himself closer to the wall, pulling away from Young. 

"I mean it, Rush..." He begins again, gently, but firmly turning the man until he is lying on his back under him. He can see the puffiness of Rush's eyes now that he's not wearing his glasses, and he realizes Rush must have been crying _before_ he'd ever even come in the room. "Forget it. You can keep it. All of it. The office, the computers. Volker. Keep it all. I'm sorry."

Rush is looking at him like he had the first night he'd told him to get on the bed. Christ, he thinks, no wonder Rush had been so scared. He'd told him to get in the bed and made him strip in front of him. He'd used his leverage as a master to force Rush to... Guilt gnaws at him still. "Rush... I'm sorry."

"You said that," He mumbles, not looking at him. 

Reaching down to take the other man's cheek in his hand, thumbing a tear from the corner of his eye, he holds him gently. Unable to stop himself, he presses a soft kiss to Rush's right temple. "Keep it all," he says again.

"You said that too." Rush closes his eyes, a few more tears tracking down his face. 

"I love you." 

Rush is looking at him now, completely stunned. 

Gently, he pushes Rush's shoulder until the man is spooned against him again. Burying his chin in the back of Rush's hair, Young thinks back over his words, cold and cruel, and the way Rush had reacted to them, caustic, then subdued, then frightened. He'd promised himself a lifetime ago that he would never rape Nicholas Rush. But he'd never told Rush that, he realizes - not till tonight, at least. Rush had been so afraid. And he'd done that. So caught up in his own anger, his own outrage. Teaching Rush his place, as a slave, as property. As a belonging. But it isn't true. 

If anything, Young realizes, he belongs to Rush. 

Sleep comes slowly for him then, though he can tell from Rush's soft, even breaths that he is already there. Closing his eyes, he tries not to think about what tomorrow will bring. 

~*~

Rush is still in the shower when the sharp rap sounds at the door. Deciding he cannot delay the inevitable, Young opens it, ushering the other man inside.

"Everett," he says by way of greeting.

"David," he replies.

~*~


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there a good SGU discord out there? Not really for RP, but more for discussion and things.

When Rush exits the shower, he is thankfully wearing a tee-shirt and his jeans, toweling dry his hair, not looking at anything in particular. Then he realizes Young is standing to his left, arms crossed. And then he notices the other man, standing on his right.

"Colonel Telford," He says with an undisguised grimace.

"Nick," David says calmly, the use of such a casual nickname infuriating Young immediately. 

Rush bristles but doesn't say a word, attacking his wet hair with more force than is strictly necessary. When it's time to drop the towel, he steps closer to Young, not touching him, but definitely in his orbit, before doing more violence to his hair with the brush. 

Their eyes flicker and meet in the mirror and Young can't figure out why Rush seems more agitated by Telford than usual. And then there's that overly-familiar nickname, he thinks. He barely calls Rush 'Nicholas,' he realizes. He would never call him 'Nick'... 

Finally, he manages to drag his gaze off the slave and back to David. "You were saying?" He rumbles, trying to catch Rush up to speed so he doesn't feel left out. 

"There's going to be a Lucian attack sometime in the next week," Telford replies evenly, as though discussing the weather. Rush stops brushing his hair. "We're going to have to dial or evacuate, Everett. The planet is too unstable to sustain both at the same time."

So Rush isn't the only one who knows about the planet's core. 

"We're not ready," he states simply. "The Gateroom is barely set up at all, let alone the equipment necessary to do more than a simple dial, let alone one with so many unknowns."

"There are less of those than you'd think," Rush interjects automatically, shutting his mouth when he realizes that he's spoken aloud.

Telford is looking at him with keen interest, but he then returns his attention to Young. "So we accelerate the timeline as much as possible. Prepare the Away Teams. Send them all at once."

"That's not protocol," Young protests with a grimace. David might be right, but...

"Neither is letting a slave on an Away Team," David says, the usual malice he reserves for Rush apparent in his voice. 

"I'm not going to discuss General O'Neill's decisions with you, David." His voice is even and even a touch cold. He wishes Rush wasn't putting on the blue sweatshirt again. 

"We're going to be attacked, Everett. The intel is good. We might only have one shot at this dialing sequence." 

"And then what? We don't even know where we're going, let alone if we'll even be capable of dialing back."

"We burn that bridge when we get to it," Telford replies simply. "I have my orders. We dial the Gate at 1500. Tonight."

~*~

Rush sits on the bed, still scowling.

"Is this... Is this going to work, Rush?" He asks quietly, sitting across from him in the chair. 

"It might," Rush offers in his own soft voice. "The math is good. But there's no telling what the final Chevron will be. We'll have to try them all and that's a lot of load on the planet." 

"You still haven't figured out the point-of-origin?" He asks, feeling doubt creep into his voice.

"It should be this base," Rush offers, looking pensive, wrapping his left arm around his torso. "But it feels... _wrong_ somehow. The projections work with this point-of-origin. But it just doesn't... feel right."

"We can't stake the whole base on math that doesn't 'feel right,' Rush," He tries to keep from snapping but the sourness is evident in his voice.

"I need more time." 

"Well, obviously, that's the last thing we're gonna get. You heard Telford. We dial in nine hours." 

~*~

The assembly in the Gateroom is a small army of barely controlled chaos. There are bins after bins of supplies stacked on one wall, a MALP as far up the Gate ramp as it can be without reaching the vaporization point. There are service men and women with all manner of guns and equipment milling about the space. Above them all, the patched-together Control Room is swarmed with scientists and other civilian personnel. 

Rush is leaning over a computer station with Volker while Brody is busy with the MALP control interface. He is the only slave in the entire area. 

Telford is leaning against one wall, arms crossed tightly to his chest, chewing on a toothpick. Young wonders if he's finally stopped smoking. He is against the wall as well, trying to stay out of the way. There is a new military officer, Sergeant Riley, being caught up to speed by Volker as well, their hands dancing over what Young knows is the dialing system interface. Finally, Rush throws his hair over one shoulder and looks at him. "We're ready." 

Young steps up and braces both arms on the railing separating the two spaces of the Gateroom. "All right people," he begins, catching their attentions with his loud, commanding tone. "We are going to begin dialing the Gate. There may be some minor disruption and stress on the Stargate. Please be advised to assume combat-ready positioning until the MALP can be deployed. And maybe then some."

Rubbing his face with one hand, Riley begins the countdown. "Chevron One, Locked." 

It continues, Rush cradling his head in one hand, elbow braced across his folded arm. Young as never seen him so stressed. The man is positively _vibrating_. And so, Young realizes, is the room. 

"Chevron Eight, Locked," Riley says, a rush of air releasing his chest. The Gate is shaking now, steam spreading from the clamping devices. The wheel spins, rotating once, twice, three times. Finally, the rumbling stops. "Chevron Nine will not engage," Riley says finally, sounding utterly defeated. 

When Young looks towards the place Rush had been, the other man is gone.

~*~

"Why didn't it work?" Telford is interrogating Volker then, and even Brody, who hasn't technically done anything wrong. Sighting the room, his tone sharpens and darkens. "Were the _hell_ is Rush?"

~*~

Young finds him rather quickly, standing in the hallway leading from the Gateroom to the base bunkers. Marker in hand, Rush is scribbling faster than Young has ever seen him before. The formula spreads across the smooth wall, one even Young has come to recognize at this point. Rush is hesitating at the end, tapping the marker against his glasses. 

"It's velocity, right?" He asks, clearly startling Rush by the way the man spins around.

"It should have worked," Rush says softly. "We did the calculations properly. Everything adds up. It should have worked."

"Is the planet just too unstable?"

"No, no, no... nothing like that. We _need_ ths power. The Gate is covering God-knows-how many lightyears. The target is moving, we know that much. But we might need more time to calculate-"

"We don't have time, Rush." He snaps, trying not to grab the man by the collar of his shirt. 

"Y'think I don't know that?!" He yells back, marker digging into his jeans again. 

"The attack could come at any time," he tries again, trying to gentle his voice.

"A week, two on the outside. We don't have to-"

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing, Rush?!" A new voice interjects. Telford crosses the space in a lunge, knocking Rush back against his equation. Rush drops the marker in surprise, looking to the side automatically, his collar showing white through his hair. 

"I don't know why the Chevron-"

"This isn't part of the _deal_ ," Telford hisses, grabbing his face until their eyes meet. What deal? Young wonders, but Telford is moving again, gripping Rush's face in a vise, making the smaller man cry out.

"David!" Young cries, grabbing the other man's arm, trying to jerk him off and away from Rush.

"Stay out of this, Everett," his best friend snarls, voice unlike anything Young has ever heard before. Rush is panting, shaking in the other man's grip. His hands open and close reflexively at his sides, not even trying to shove Telford away. 

And then, just as suddenly as the attack came, it's over. "Fix this, Rush," he warns, voice still dark and cold.

When he storms off towards the Gateroom, Young wheels on Rush, who looks disheveled and is rubbing his jaw. "What the hell?"

Rush ignores him, rooting around in the floor for his marker. Young steps on it to keep the other man from taking it back, commanding his attention. "What was the point of that little shitshow?" He snaps, hating the way his voice sounds like David. 

"Point..." Rush echoes dully, still staring at the floor, at Young's foot on his marker. "Point." He says again, voice taking on a more contemplative tone. 

"Rush?" Young asks quietly, but the other man is all-but running back towards the Gateroom, leaving Young no choice but to follow.

~*~

There is far more stress on the Gate this time around. As Riley calls the Chevrons, the Stargate is vibrating, throwing off more steam as the air around it vaporizes and foams into the air. The base is shaking.

A sudden crackle of static is the only warning Young gets before something slams into the base above their heads, an explosion that rocks the already-stressed Gate. 

"Everett!" David calls, at his side immediately. "It's begun."

"Chevron Eight, Locked," Riley continues, barely keeping a tremor out of his voice.

The roof shudders under another barrage. Their radios don't reach the surface at this level, so David is on the phone, speaking to someone through a landline. "We've got ha'tak, gliders, you name it, they're throwing it at us," he calls, cradling the phone in one hand.

"Shit," Young murmurs, before shouting out over the chaos that has become the Gateroom. "All right, people. We are officially under attack. Gather everything you can. We've got one shot at this and then we're going to have to figure something else out even faster." _Rush_ will have to figure something out, he realizes.

The point-of-origin swims up on the computer screen, and Rush is pressed so close to it that Riley can barely see. "Mr. Rush, please-"

" _Shut_ up," Rush advises, leaning over to take the keyboard from the other man's suddenly lax hands. When Young does his share of leaning over, he sees that Rush has bypassed the point-of-origin for P4X-351. That doesn't make sense, Young knows, that isn't how Gates work. But Rush selects the familiar triangle-shaped Glyph. Earth. 

"That doesn't-" He begins but Rush is already initiating the sequence.

The Gate is literally screaming now, high whistling noises coming from the place where the wheel reaches the outer rim. The Gate spins, once, twice, three times. Rush bows his head, trembling like he might pass out. Suddenly, everything stops. 

The wheel stops spinning, the Gate still shrieking faintly. More steam vents as the Gate superheats and just as rapidly cools the air around it. The wheel stops spinning. 

Wonder in his voice, Riley says softly, "Chevron Nine... Locked."

Rush's shoulders fall and Young realizes the man is sobbing. The Gate's energy explodes outwards, vaporization point just like a regular Stargate. Glimmering, the blue puddle looks just like any Gate. Rush lets out another strangled sob. 

"Okay, people," Young hears himself saying, sounding like someone else talking. "We move out." Another explosion rocks the base, but the Stargate remains steady, open. "NOW."

~*~


End file.
